


Build Me a Son

by Kat Morgan (Wren_K)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Kidnapping, Magnificent Seven AU: ATF, Original Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:04:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 27,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wren_K/pseuds/Kat%20Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>God dammit!  How the Hell had they found him again so quickly?  JD risked a glance over his shoulder as he wove his rented motorcycle in and out of the early lunchtime traffic.  The ominous gray Lincoln was still behind him, making no effort to hide the fact that it was mimicking his movements. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday - Rockport, MA

**Author's Note:**

> This one's been a long time coming. I posted the first part to the Darlin's mailing list back in March of 2000 and naively hoped it wouldn't take too long to finish. Ha! It feels remarkably good to get this one off the WIP stack. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> So very many people have poked and prodded this story into being. Thanks for putting up with me and not giving up on me. Please see the acknowledgements following the story.

God dammit! How the Hell had they found him again so quickly? JD risked a glance over his shoulder as he wove his rented motorcycle in and out of the early lunchtime traffic. The ominous gray Lincoln was still behind him, making no effort to hide the fact that it was mimicking his movements.

He roared down the crowded street, ignoring the annoyed honks as people braked to give him room. Skidding around a corner onto a small side street, he straightened the bike through sheer willpower. Now would not be a good time to lay the bike down. 

This street was quiet. Taking advantage of the open road, he accelerated trying to put some space between himself and the Towncar. Residences flew past as the speedometer crept steadily higher. Sixty... Sixty-five... Seventy...

He checked on his shadow. The Lincoln was still there, pacing him. The shade trees lining the street cast a dappled effect over the shiny exterior. The car was a steel shark intent on the hunt and its eventual kill.

And JD had no doubt that a kill was the intended outcome of this chase. The guys in the car meant business. Now if he could just figure out whose business. He swerved to avoid a pothole -- lethal at these speeds -- and decided that he really didn't care. He'd settle for just getting away.

A car rounded the corner farther down the street. JD swore when he recognized it as a doppelganger of the one behind him. It accelerated, bearing down on him. JD was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the absence of side streets. 

Skidding to a stop, JD looked around frantically for an escape route. The two cars were closing in fast and he had to get off the street. He was already living on borrowed time.

Just ahead was a gap between two fences. JD didn't know where the alleyway led, but anywhere was better than here. The motorcycle peeled out, tires chirping, as he gunned the accelerator and made for the gap.

The tight passage was too narrow for the cars; there was less than a foot between his handlebars and the wooden boards on either side. Tall weeds whipped at his legs, as he roared through. JD concentrated on his riding, while an uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades reminded him of just how vulnerable he was. He didn't kid himself that the pursuit was off. A bullet could still end it in a heartbeat.

The alley gave way to an open field, rising to a precipice. Beyond the cliff lay the ocean. The taste of salt on the wind surprised JD. In his desperate attempt to lose his pursuers, he'd lost track of the turns he'd taken. God, what he wouldn't give to be in Denver right now.

One of the Lincolns came into view. It sped along a road that edged the lot JD was tearing across. The ground was too soggy for the Lincoln to follow him cross-country, but JD was rapidly running out of places to go. He tried to convince himself that the men in the cars wanted him alive. After all, they could have killed him at any point during the chase, but hadn't. That meant one of two things.

One: Whoever pursued him wanted their privacy for the kill.

The sharp crack of a rifle report filled the air with a crisp violence. JD flinched, bracing himself for agony that never came. Instead the back of his bike dropped and wobbled madly, sending him careening off course. The rear tire was flat, shot out.

Or two: They wanted him alive, and it was just a matter of collecting him.

JD cranked down on the brake hard, tumbling from the bike as it became mired in oozing mud. He rolled to his feet and began running as fast as the soggy ground would let him. The wet grass did nothing to cover the heavy mud and he slipped several times. His shoes and legs were soon caked in the clinging mess; the extra weight slowed him down. 

In the absence of cover, he ran full out. His breath was harsh in his ears, searing in and out of his lungs. The taste of salt made the air sharp and the heavy humidity felt like breathing through a wet cloth. He went down again. The boggy earth made a sucking noise as he pushed off, struggling to find solid footing without sacrificing speed. 

He covered a quarter mile at a dead sprint; legs pumping, heart pounding against his throat. The road angled through the field, intersecting his course. JD's feet found purchase on the hard packed gravel and he dug in, pushing hard.

The second car screeched to a halt in front of him. JD had to throw himself backward into the ditch to avoid sliding beneath front bumper. 

A tall blond man in a conservative suit climbed out of the passenger side, a forty-five held expertly in his hand. "Please, Jonathan," he said, his mild tone rendered menacing by his accent. "Don't make this difficult."

JD glared up at him, still on his backside in the mud. "How do you know my name?" He tried to work a snarl into his winded words.

"I know everything about you," the blond answered in the same infuriatingly calm tone of before. Without wavering his aim in the slightest, he opened the rear car door. "Now, if you would." He gestured toward the back seat with his gun.

"I'm fine down here," JD said. "That's a -- that's a nice car, and I'm," he gestured to his disheveled state with a shrug, "all muddy."

A muscle in the gunman's jaw twitched with irritation, but only the mildest of rebukes carried in his voice. "I'm afraid I must insist." He made a show of considering the car before adding, "However, you do have a point. Kuzma." He spoke to the driver in a rapid-fire spat of a language JD didn't understand.

The hulking driver waded into the mud and plucked JD from the ground. Any thoughts of struggling fled JD when he recognized the twinkling malevolence that peered at him from beneath slab-like brows. The massive hands that carried him tightened like iron bands, deliberately inflicting pain on the smaller man.

Kuzma deposited JD in the trunk that his boss held open. The blond smirked at JD, his hand resting casually on the trunk-lid. "You're right, it is a nice car." He slammed the trunk shut, pounding on the metal once for good measure.

They drove only a short way before the car jerked to a stop. JD coiled, preparing to throw himself into battle the second they came for him. The trunk latch popped open, but no one lifted the lid. He waited, muscles trembling with tension.

"Please join us, Jonathan," the blond called out, amused.

JD clambered from the trunk, struggling to aright himself from the awkward confinement. He exaggerated his labors, stealing a few moments to get his bearings. They were parked at the edge of the cliff he'd seen, looking out across the Atlantic. The second Lincoln had joined them, his motorcycle protruding from its trunk. 

The driver of the second car was younger and smaller than the other two. JD sized him up covertly and liked his odds. He caught JD's assessment and met it with an openly hostile scowl. He adjusted his jacket so JD could see the holstered weapon clearly.

"What do you want," JD asked, trying to edge the fear out of his voice. He hung back, keeping the comfortable mass of the car at his back.

The blond, who was clearly in charge, motioned for JD to come closer. "I want to talk with you."

JD shook his head, settling back against the car. "We can talk here."

"Genya," the boss snapped, giving name to the younger of the two guards. The named man responded instantly, betraying a practiced air of answering commands. Definitely just hired muscle. JD filed that information away for later.

Genya gripped JD's bicep tightly, fingers digging cruelly into the muscle. JD stumbled, crashing into Genya and pulling the man off balance. As his opponent wind-milled, JD made a play for the man's holstered weapon. 

He didn't see the fist that collided against his cheek with the force of a comet and drove him to the ground. The blow sent streaks of darkness across his vision and the reverberation of it shattered his thoughts.

Rough hands hauled him upright, held him steady while the boss addressed the stunned JD. "You have no idea the trouble you've caused," his tone was blisteringly matter-of-fact. JD began to suspect he could measure his lifespan in terms of minutes. "I'll start with an easy question. Who do you work for? How do you know about Joseph Richland?"

"That was two questions." JD grinned -- or tried to, his body still hugged the verge of stupor. 

The smart aleck response bought JD an open handed blow to the side of the head that sent him listing to one side. He would have fallen save the grip of the man behind him.

"Don't play games with me, you little bastard. Answer the question."

"I don't work for anyone, and I've got personal business with Richland." JD's ears rang.

He buried his fist into JD's stomach. He barely heard the next questions above his body's frantic efforts to draw in breath. "Who sent you? Does anyone know you're here?"

JD hunched over, sagging against the restraining arms. The truth had gotten him nowhere, time to see what lying would do. "Hell, yeah. I called CNN last night. Let them know I was on to this little set-up. They were awfully excited about the story."

A screaming punch clipped JD's jaw, snapping his head back against Kuzma's chest. The thug released JD, letting him pool to the ground limply. 

The blond knelt, his breath hot against JD's ear as he hissed, "You're a liar, Jonathan. You're too stupid to have tipped off CNN."

JD gingerly tested his jaw. Nothing seemed broken, though he didn't expect that to last long. He glared up at his assailant. "All this 'cause I asked some questions about a man no one's seen in over twenty years?"

"Maybe." The blonde nodded to his men. They quickly unloaded JD's motorcycle from the trunk of their car. 

"Too bad about the bike," the blonde man said. "It's a shame to waste such a beautiful machine." He nodded again and the Kawasaki purred to life. The two underlings pushed the bike to the edge of the cliff. A final shove sent the motorcycle airborne, out and then down, in an arcing line toward the wave pounded rocks below.

JD tried not to flinch as the faint crash reached his ears. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back to his feet. The leader caught his elbow in a vice-like grip. The other men began tidying up the area, removing traces of their activities.

"So, no more bike, Jonathan. What shall we throw over next?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening scene was inspired by a Chet Cunningham novel, the title of which I've forgotten entirely.


	2. Tuesday - Denver

"Heard from your shadow lately?" Vin asked, taking a seat on the edge of JD's empty desk.

Buck looked up from the report he was typing. "He called last night. Said he had a couple good leads that he was gonna run down today. Just hope he ain't too disappointed with what he finds."

Josiah wandered over. "Disappointment's a part of growing up."

"I know. Just wish he'd thought this through."

"You mean come around to your way of thinking, don't ya?" Nathan asked.

"No... Well, maybe. It's just that this Richland fellow's had twenty-three years to track the kid down. He obviously don't want anything to do with JD, and I don't want to see the kid hurt."

"Man's got a right to know where he comes from. If only so he can appreciate where he is," Josiah offered in what the team had affectionately labeled as his 'preacher voice.'

Buck wasn't really in the mood for advice. "Yeah, well the kid was just fine where he was 'til those damn letters showed up."

The letters Buck referred to had arrived on JD's doorstep two months previous. The package was from a Juliana Marcus, a friend of Katherine Dunne's. She had only just heard of Katherine's death, and tracking down her friend's wayward son had proved to be something of a challenge. She'd explained as much in the warm, if slightly rambling letter that accompanied the bundle.

Inside were missives that chronicled over a quarter century of friendship.

Since their arrival, JD had been pouring over them; watching through his mother's eyes as he and she grew up together.

The letters started with a very young Katie Dunne, pouring her hopes and dreams onto paper. Later she spoke of her only child with a love and pride that did much to heal the heart of her still grieving son.

He must have read each letter a half dozen times, occasionally sharing one or relaying his version of events to Buck. Good times and bad, he memorized her words by rote.

Far and away, the most finger-worn letters were those written during a six-month period that started a full year before JD's birth; a period that centered almost exclusively on a Joseph Richland.

JD never said anything, but Buck could see the gears turning. Buck didn't bring it up, hoping the matter would go away on its own. Then a week and a half ago, JD announced that he had two weeks of vacation and a ticket to Boston.

Buck's offers to accompany him had been met with gentle, but firm refusals. JD had insisted that he needed to go alone. In the end, Buck had relented. But that didn't stop him from keeping an overnight bag packed- just in case.

"Patience, brother. He'll be back in a few days."

"He'd better be, or I'm gonna have to go drag his scrawny ass home."

The others laughed at the empty threat, then quickly disbursed as the door opened and AD Travis entered the office.

Travis didn't acknowledge them. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he made a beeline for Larabee's office. Buck heard Chris’s 'hello' turn into a concerned 'Is everything all-"

The door shut firmly.

"What'd you do this time?" Vin asked, suddenly at Buck's elbow.

Buck jumped, startled. "Dammit, Vin. Don't do that! And what makes you think it was me? Ez gets called onto the carpet more'n I do."

Ezra, hearing his name, entered the conversation. "Which is precisely why I know I am not the source of this visit. I've had my monthly tete-a-tete with the esteemed Judge."

The three men chuckled, and returned to their work, but remained wary of the conversation going on behind closed doors.

Fifteen minutes later, both the judge and Chris exited the office. 

"Guys, I need to talk to everyone."

Buck was worried. That meeting hadn't been long enough to be a new case, or even a proper scolding. 'Sides, Chris didn't look angry. He looked... sad?

"The Judge just received a phone call from Massachusetts State Police."

Massachusetts? Buck was suddenly certain he didn't want to hear the rest of the announcement. Forcing a jovial tone, he said, "Don't tell me. They heard the kid was in the state unsupervised and want to give him back."

"Buck." Chris’s tone was too soft, no exasperation at the poor attempt at humor.

Things were worse than he thought. Buck felt his heart clench. "What happened?"

The silence as Chris groped for the proper words in a situation where there weren't any, told Buck more than he wanted to know. "What happened?" He asked again, demanding an answer.

Judge Travis stepped in for Chris. "They recovered a motorcycle at the base of a cliff near Rockport this morning. It was rented to Agent Dunne."

Nathan found his voice first. "Just the bike? Not..."

"No. No body, but the bike was caught among the rocks and the tide had already gone out."

"No body, then they don't know for a fact he was on it."

Travis held up his hand, stilling Josiah's protest. "He stopped at a gas station nearby. Several people identified him from a picture. Said he seemed upset. The local 9-1-1 center received several complaints about a motorcycle driving recklessly through the area; including the neighborhood near the cliff. I'm sorry, but it doesn't look good."

Buck was numb. This wasn't happening. He refused to believe it. "Judge, I need to take some personal time." The words were wooden, forced. 

The Judge nodded. "I'll take care of the arrangements. I assume the rest of you will be going too?"

They nodded. There was no question involved. Team 7 had a crisis and they would handle it in their usual fashion—together and with all the subtlety of a hand grenade.

"I'll get Team 4 to take over your cases. Just to warn you, there will be an investigation. A federal agent doesn't just ride off a cliff. I'll let the FBI know to expect you. I am sorry. JD was a good man and a fine agent."

"Still is," Buck's voice was rough with emotion, but there was a certainty in his voice that dared anyone to argue. "JD knows bikes. If, and I do mean if he went over, he had a hand in the going."


	3. Tuesday - Boston, MA

Awareness was slow in returning to JD. Bits of reality slowly filtered through the drugged haze of nightmare; leaching the dream away until only the tomb remained. All in all, JD preferred the nightmare.

The trunk of the Lincoln hadn't grown any while he was unconscious and the afternoon sun seemed to beat against the metal roof with malicious intent. It was enough to make JD regret that his captors hadn't followed through on their threat to send him after the motorcycle. Instead the blond man had jabbed a needle into JD's neck; injecting something that sent JD tumbling into the comforting arms of oblivion.

He was on his side, hands bound tightly behind him with a thin cord that bit into his wrists. His feet had been similarly hobbled and then lashed to some anchoring point. The shoulder his weight rested on ached as though he'd held the position for quite some time. Beyond that, he had no way of measuring how long he'd been unconscious. 

The stale air felt solid in JD's mouth, hard to force past his sawdust tongue and sandpaper throat. Irrational fear seized his lungs and he thrashed, struggling to draw a clean breath. What he got was hot air that tasted mechanical and did nothing to soothe his panic. The car was in motion, the engine running... He imagined he could feel the confined space filling with exhaust. 

His knee connected with the roof. The molded metal cracked against his kneecap so hard it drove all thoughts of suffocation away. He whimpered a swear word. Bright pain focused his mind, chasing away the remnants of drugged shadow. He forced himself to relax; concentrating on the steady rise and fall of his breathing until his pulse had slowed.

Gingerly he began taking stock of his situation, dim as it was. He had no real idea how long they'd been driving, or in what direction. The car moved steadily which meant they were no longer in the city. The road was smooth and fairly straight; occasionally curving, only to straighten once more. It felt like a highway. Could be either the Ninety or the Ninety-Three or the... Hell, he didn't even know if he was still in Massachusetts.

Sometime later, though exactly how much later was lost in his futile attempts to find a comfortable position, the car slowed and took a tight turn. The new road was rougher, with potholes and seams in the concrete. They were off the highway crossing surface streets now. JD strained hard to hear anything that might identify his location. Beyond the occasional rise and fall of passing cars, nothing stood out.

Eventually even the sound of other vehicles faded and the pitted pavement gave way to a gravel road. The car stuttered across the rough track with bone-jarring force. The driver obviously cared little for his shocks, and even less for his passenger in the trunk.

About the time JD was sure he was going to shake to pieces, the car slowed. He pitched forward, banging his head against the floor. Outside he could hear the low whine of a metal door as it lowered into place. He found himself wishing for the relative sanctuary of the roadway now that they were here. Wherever 'here' was.

The trunk opened with a flood of fluorescent needles that burrowed into his brain. JD squinted, eyes welling in the harsh light. Kuzma loomed over him casting a shadow that offered respite but no relief. A large knife glittered dangerously in the tough's meaty fist.

Instinctively JD wriggled backward, trying to put space between him and the blade. Kuzma reached in and severed the rope around JD's ankles with a single, sharp stroke. The knife disappeared into a concealed sheath with smooth efficiency.

Massive hands that could double as catcher mitts twisted JD's shirtfront. Kuzma lifted him from the car trunk, grunting slightly as he manhandled JD's dead weight. He plopped JD onto his feet, keeping one hand wrapped in his shirt to steady the swaying agent. 

He used the grip to steer JD into the main house via a heavily reinforced door. The room they entered surprised JD; he expected something dark and industrial. Instead, a freakish air of normalcy pervaded the space. At first glance all the trappings of modern suburbia were there. At second glance, they were all slightly askew.

A family portrait hung on the wall opposite from where he stood. JD felt confident the picture had come with the frame. Certainly those smiling people never came home to this house with its heavy steel door and bulletproof windows. And he didn't expect his captors were the types to leave photographs of anyone who meant anything just hanging about.

The blond in charge swept into the room, snapping orders to the younger guard who trotted obediently in his wake. When he was satisfied that Genya understood the commands, he turned and assessed JD with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Naslzhdoytas pohzdkio, Donat'n?" The smile didn't waiver as he scrutinized the young man standing before him. Finding no comprehension, he repeated himself in crisp English. "Enjoy the ride, Jonathan?"

"What...?" JD rasped, the rest of his question getting stuck in his parched throat.

"We'll have plenty of time for questions later." For the first time, emotion registered in the man's pale blue eyes; a look of vicious anticipation that chilled JD. He held JD's gaze, taking satisfaction in the uncertainty he found there. With a curt nod, he issued directions to Kuzma in the same language he'd spoken before. 

Kuzma's reply was short and succinct. He released JD's shirtfront and slid his hand up JD's shoulder to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. Using this more effective leash, he propelled JD through the living room and small adjacent kitchen. They climbed a narrow staircase that sorely tempted JD to try to break free. Kuzma seemed to sense his thoughts and tightened his grasp on JD's hair.

"Don't," he growled; his breath hot against JD's cheek. "You still talk with broken legs." His accent was rougher than his boss's, but his message was crystal clear.

In the hallways upstairs, he jerked JD to a halt in front of the second door on the left. The door stood ajar to a simple bedroom. Kuzma sliced the plastic cords that linked JD's wrists, uncaring when the blade drew a thin line of blood on his forearm. He planted a hand in the middle of JD's back and shoved him forward into the room.

The door was shut and locked before JD stopped stumbling.

The room was sparse, with modifications that were on par with what he'd seen in the rest of the house; reinforcements around the windows and door. And -- he suspected, within the walls themselves.

There was nothing in the room that could serve as a weapon. The only light emitted from a recessed bulb in the center of the ceiling, it's potentially sharp fragments padlocked behind a sheet of ballistics glass. The sole piece of furniture was a sturdy metal bed frame that had been welded together, eschewing screws. Two massive bolts anchored each leg to the floor.

There was a fresh change of clothes folded neatly on the foot of the bed; a plain white t-shirt and grey sweats. On the linoleum floor next to the bed was a plastic pitcher of water and a large matching bowl. A washcloth was folded neatly in the bottom of the bowl. 

JD picked up the pitcher and studied it, weighing its potential as a weapon. It posed the only possibility in the room, and a lousy one at that. He disregarded it with a disgruntled sigh. It wasn't heavy enough to do any damage as a club, and he doubted he could even get a sharp edge by breaking it. 

He sniffed the water cautiously, tempted by the precious liquid. The only thing he could smell was the cheap plastic of the pitcher. And really, he reasoned, if they wanted to drug him they didn't have to be subtle about it. They'd already proven that point. He took several deep draughts, gulping greedily. The room-temperature water was the sweetest thing he'd tasted in recent memory. 

Once his thirst was slaked, JD poured the remaining water into the bowl and soaked the washcloth. His clothes were still mud-caked from his aborted escape attempt. The slick ooze had dried into a hard shell that flaked off every time he moved.

It hurt to lift his arms, but he eventually managed to ease his t-shirt off. He crumpled the ruined garment into a ball and pitched it into a corner. He probed his ribs, grateful that the bones beneath the purpling mess on his side weren't broken. He'd hurt for a couple days, but at least he would still be alive in the morning.

He hoped.

JD swiped at the worst of the mud with the washcloth before he pulled on the clean shirt. He toed off his sneakers and sent them bouncing after his t-shirt. Socks and jeans followed a moment after. He cleaned up best as he could and put on the sweats.

There didn't seem to be a light switch anywhere in the room, but JD figured he could cope for one night. The bed wasn't what he would call luxurious, but at the moment it was more than adequate. He could feel sleep tugging at the edges of his mind. The last thought that filtered in before he gave in to it was of curiosity and mild excitement. They wouldn't have kidnapped him if he was on a cold trail.


	4. Wednesday, Boston - FBI Offices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this so long ago that technology and info about various shadowy agencies have completely changed. Your author humbly disavows any knowledge of actual spycraft.

Buck had never been very good at waiting, particularly when there were other things he thought he could be doing. Unfortunately, waiting to speak with the investigating agent was one of the things he could do at the moment—the main thing.

With a heavy sigh, he shifted in his seat. Chris glared warningly at the restless agent. "Sorry," Buck said, then promptly shifted again. He couldn't help it. He'd always done his thinking on his feet. And right now, both feet were itching to get started. It had been bad enough last night enduring the flight east and then waiting for morning to get started. Now morning was here, and he was still waiting.

Waiting and thinking. Picturing a dozen ways JD could be hurting at the very same time he sat in comfortable chair waiting for some arrogant FBI agent who wouldn't tell him anything anyway. It went against every grain in his body. Buck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and cast a long look back toward the exit.

Chris glanced up from the letter he was reading. "Buck, calm down." Even though Chris was there as a friend and not a supervisor, his words carried the weight of an order.

Buck found himself profoundly grateful for the command presence. It was easy to give in to Chris, to let him make the decisions. It gave Buck more time to grasp at the rapidly thinning straws. He would bring JD home... one way, or another.

NO!

He couldn't allow himself to start thinking that way. As long as there was no body, Buck refused to even consider the idea that... that... With a growl, he abandoned the chair, finding an outlet through pacing.

"Buck-" Chris started.

"I should have been here, Chris. I should have insisted."

"Insisted what, Buck? That the kid can't take care of himself? That he needs a keeper and a leash?" 

"Well he obviously does need a keeper, otherwise we'd still be in Denver and not sittin' here on our asses waitin' to find out if he's-" Buck broke the sentence off, unwilling to finish the morose thought.

He didn't wait for Chris to reply. "We should be getting started, not lounging around waiting for some damned bureaucrat."

"Buck, calm down. The others are out looking for him. You and I need to find out what they've already found. Doesn't do us any good if we trample through the official investigation. Just gets everyone riled up, and us left out of the loop."

"I know. I know," Buck said, trying to calm himself down. Chris was right. Damn his logic, but he was right. "It's just... JD needs me, and I'm sitting here instead of finding him. I should have been here." He turned away, an attempt to hide his all too obvious grief. Denial was a delicate game. As long as the others believed he had hope, he could convince himself there was something there to believe in. 

The ruse didn't work. Not with someone who knew Buck the way Chris did. Chris recognized the defense mechanism for what it was. Instead of arguing the point, he offered what consolation he could find in the situation. "You're here now." 

"Too late. I'm always one damned day too late."

Chris’s jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck jumping violently as Buck's words struck home. "What? You're a fortune-teller now? You can see the future?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean... I just... "

"I know, Buck. I'm worried too."

The door opened, cutting off the rest of the conversation. A clean-shaven man in his mid-forties entered the waiting room. "Agents Larabee, Wilmington," he said extending his hand. "I'm Special Agent Taffe."

Buck shook the man's hand briskly. "You're handling the investigation?" he asked, not waiting for Chris to finish the conventions of greeting.

"I am, and I'm sorry to have kept you waiting. I was on the phone with our lab. They just started on the motorcycle." He looked about the sterile reception area curiously. "I thought there were more of you?"

Chris answered, "There are. I hope you don't mind, but the others wanted to take a look around on their own."

Taffe raised his eyebrows slightly, but quickly buried the expression. "Well, we can always use more manpower and at least your boys know what they're doing. Now, if you'll follow me, I've got some questions I need to ask you."

He led them through the security door and into a conference room. Several files lay open on the table. Taffe didn't wait for them to get too comfortable. "Do you know why Agent Dunne was in Boston?"

Buck answered, "He's originally from Boston. He's here trying to track down his father."

"His father?" Taffe frowned. "No one bothered to mention that."

"Is something wrong?" Chris asked, puzzled by Taffe's reaction.

Taffe leaned back in his chair. One hand came up to absently rub at his chin. "We were under the impression that Agent Dunne was on assignment."

"What gave you that idea?"

Rather than answer, Taffe tossed a picture on the table. "That is Nikolai Zhellar. a.k.a. Joseph Richland, a.k.a. Andrew Weston, a.k.a. Michael Harmon, a.k.a... Well, you get the idea. We aren't even sure Zhellar is his real name. It's just the one he used when he came into the country in the mid 80's."

"What does this have to do with JD," Chris asked.

Buck picked up the picture and studied it carefully. "This is Richland?"

"Among other aliases," Agent Taffe said. "Dunne was making some very public inquiries about him. Why?"

"I told you. He's looking for his father."

"And he thinks that Joseph Richland knows where to find him?"

"No. He thinks Joseph Richland is his father. You want to tell us what this is all about?"

"Richland is his father? Is he positive?" Taffe seemed taken aback by the idea.

A cold feeling of dread settled in Buck's stomach. Something in Taffe's tone set him on edge. "His mother never told him who his father was, but JD found some of her papers that mention Richland. Why? Is he wanted, or something?" 

Taffe gave him a pained look. "You might say that. Look, the State Department has long been aware of certain individuals within our borders who are here for the sole purpose of intelligence gathering."

"You mean spies," Chris cut to the point.

"JD's dad is a spy?" Buck burst out at the same time.

"Something like that. Zhellar immigrated on a student visa in '86. He moved about quite a bit for the first several years. Disappearing in one state, reappearing in the next with a new identity. The last knowledge NSA has of him is in ‘90 under the alias of Joseph Richland. He went to ground after that, and stayed there."

"How do you know all this? You know as well as I do, that files like that are off limits."

"They are. Which is why Agent Dunne immediately popped up on the radar. An ATF agent suddenly looking for a man that NSA can't find. They wanted to know where he got his information. Apparently he was following a good trail, if a little bluntly. NSA wanted the FBI to handle the investigation because they couldn't trace Dunne's connection and didn't want to reveal anything if it was a fluke. Matter of fact, I shouldn't even be telling you this."

"Why are you?"

Taffe shrugged. "I don't like being manipulated. NSA has their own plan in motion. And it doesn't necessarily involve helping your agent."


	5. Wednesday, Boston

The small house was unassuming and indistinguishable from any of the others on the street. Josiah shot Vin a questioning look. Rather than acknowledge the silent questioning of his navigational skills, Vin raised his fist and knocked firmly on the wooden door. 

A tall blonde man with laughing gray eyes answered. Just behind him and off to one side a huge German shepherd lounged in a deceptively calm manner.

"Officer Plath? Agents Tanner and Sanchez," Vin said showing the man his departmental ID.

Plath nodded. "Dispatch told me you were on your way over. I'm not sure how I can help you, but come on in."

He led them into the house. The living room was neat, but with a comfortable feel to it. Glancing around, Vin noticed the telltale signs of a small child's presence. Moving aside a small shoe, he took a seat on the sofa.

The Shepherd wandered over to inspect the two interlopers. Vin held out his hand to be sniffed. The dog moved to Josiah next, then satisfied that neither was an immediate risk, moved to sit next to her master where she could watch their actions. 

Plath said, "Ignore Kyrie, she's never off the job. They told me this was about that motorcycle I found. I thought the FBI was handling the case?"

"They are. Dunne is a member of our team," Josiah told him.

Vin noticed the soft hitch in Josiah's words when he said 'is'. Josiah didn't think they'd find the kid. "If you could just tell us what happened."

"I'm sorry about your friend. It's all in my report, but I don't mind going over it again. About 11:00 dispatch put out an attempt to locate on a reckless motorcycle. I looked for it for a while. Then went out on a traffic stop. After I cleared, I was sent on a criminal mischief report on Gap Head Road. Tire tracks through a lawn. I decided to save myself some effort and document the tracks before the other victims called in the complaints, so I followed them. It looked like the bike went down in the field behind the house. The area was pretty well torn up, but it looked like someone walked the bike up to the road. The motorcycle tracks picked up again a short time later at the top of the cliff. I looked over the edge and saw the bike." 

"Just the bike? You're sure about that?" Vin was grasping at straws and he knew it, but if there was a chance... 

"Positive. But the tide was on its way out. The body," he looked at them apologetically, "could have washed out to sea. I'm sorry. I know what it's like to lose a friend. The Coast Guard assisted in recovering the bike, but they didn't find anything either. After we found out who had rented the motorcycle, we notified the FBI and your agency."

The interview was over, but Vin couldn't bring himself to end it. If he just held out for a second more Plath would offer some sort of hope, some insignificant fact that would give them a place to start. He didn't. 

Vin barely heard Josiah thank Plath for his time. He added his own mumbled appreciation. He read the sympathy in the gray eyes and rejected it. 

As they stepped into the sunlight, Vin said, "He's still alive."

Josiah looked at him without comment, then pushed past Vin and headed to the car.

"He is," Vin insisted again, stubbornly.


	6. Wednesday, Minot - Merriel's Hotel

The rental sedan pulled smoothly into the motel parking lot. Not nearly as nice as his Jag, but far better than the Blazer he'd seen Nathan eyeing at the lot. Ezra turned the engine off and climbed out of the vehicle. He waited as Nathan exited and walked around from the passenger side, using the opportunity to survey the little motel.

A short row of garishly painted duplex cottages stretched out in a semi-circle around them. The flowerbeds surrounding the office and cabins were barren, but the bank of woodchips promised that spring would add even more riotous colors to the scene.

"This is it?" Ezra sounded dubious.

Nathan nodded, slowly giving the buildings a skeptical once over. "Buck said this was the where the kid was staying. Guess he and his momma used to stay here during the summers."

"Doesn't appear that Father Time has been at all generous, does it?" Ezra asked, removing his sunglasses. He instantly regretted the action. The colors were worse without the filtering lenses.

A movement at the office window caught Ezra's attention. "Well, we've been noticed. May as well start in there." He gestured for Nathan to lead the way.

Despite the worn appearance outside, the small office was quite cozy and inviting. A slight, silver-haired woman stood expectantly at the counter. She wore a cable-knit, fisherman's sweater and blue jeans. Dark brown eyes were sharp, but laugh-lines encircled them. She regarded the two newcomers warily.

"What can I do for you boys?"

"Agent Standish, this is Agent Jackson, with the ATF. We're trying to locate a young man who may have been staying here."

She didn't look impressed. "We get a lot of travelers through here. Mind telling me which one in particular?"

Nathan pulled out a photo. "He told a friend he'd be staying here."

She barely glanced at the photo. "Nope, he hasn't been here."

"Are you sure? His name's JD Dunne. Please, it's important."

"I'm sure. He hasn't been here."

"Perhaps he came in while someone else was minding the desk? Aren't you going to check the registry?" 

"No need. I know who stays in my cabins and he's not one of them."

Ezra knew she was lying. He'd seen the recognition in her eyes when Nathan handed her the picture. "Could you please just check?"

She sighed. "I'll be right back."

Ezra decided to take it for the threat it was. He idly studied the various tourist maps of the area, while Nathan snuck a quick glance at the guest book. 

Nathan whistled softly and held the book out to Ezra. JD had signed in nearly a week ago. The boy's scrawling hand proclaimed, 'Good to be home again, Mrs. Merrial.'

The woman returned, carrying the hardbound guest registry. "I told you, he's not listed here."

Nathan handed her the guestbook, pointing out the second newest entry. "Please ma'am, it's important that you cooperate. We need to find him."

She read the entry and sighed. A warm smile crossed her lips. "I should have known he would have signed in. He always did," she told them. "Even when he was a bitty thing and his mamma had to hold his hand to form the letters. He'd come straight away to the desk and say 'Miz Merrial, I'm checking in'." She chuckled at the memory, then continued, "It was the highlight of the summer for Tom and me. Katie was such a sickly thing, she'd sit out in the sun and JD, he'd shadow my Tom. You never saw such an active child. Impossible to keep up with, and a smile that wouldn't let you stay mad at him. Not for anything."

"Please, we need to know if he mentioned anything to you," Nathan said, interrupting the reminiscence.

"Is he in trouble?"

"Yes ma'am, he is. Anything you can remember would be useful. Names, places, anything."

She ignored his questions. "Knew something was gnawing at him. At least his mother isn't alive to see this. God bless. It would break her heart -- the way she doted on that boy. Not that I blame her. You couldn't help but adore him. I suppose his sense of adventure was bound to be his undoing. Just never figured that he'd get in so far that the ATF came looking for him."

"You misunderstand us, Madame. Mr. Dunne is a friend and a colleague. We're here because he is in need of our assistance."

She pursed her lips and leveled an appraising glare at the pair of them. "Okay. I believe you. So help me, but I do. You two aren't the first to come looking for him. Another fella was here earlier. I sent him packing, but it didn't sit right." She reached under the counter and withdrew a room key. "Cabin 8, the blue one on the end. He hasn't been here since yesterday morning at breakfast. You find him, give him whatfor for scaring an old lady. I'll work on a list of places for you."

Ezra thanked her and took the key. He and Nathan left quickly. Once outside Nathan began to chuckle. Ezra shot him a curious look.

"Sorry. I was just wondering if Nettie knew she had a long lost sister," Nathan explained as they crossed the lot to number eight.

It amused Ezra and he found his spirits lifted for the brief moment of humor. He was still grinning as he unlocked the door to the cabin. He pushed the door partially open and took a moment to appraise the small room. While it was clean, or as clean as it could be under JD's care, and well maintained, it was obviously a low-end establishment. 

He could see that he still had a great deal to teach JD... Grimacing as the thought trailed off, he opened the door all the way to admit Nathan and himself.

"You start in here. I'll check the other room," Nathan said, moving past Ezra to the bedroom door.

Ezra lingered in the doorway for a moment. Despite only a brief occupancy, traces of JD were everywhere. A shirt was thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair. Blue jeans lay forgotten in the corner, a dark puddle of material. A three-ring binder lay open on the table; papers and street maps covered the rest of the flat surfaces.

Ezra could almost see the young man shuffling distractedly through the papers, JD’s mind a million miles away from the task of the moment. JD had definitely left an impression on the small hotel. And not just in the room. Miz Merrial had been defensive of the boy, to the point of lying to federal agents. Ezra couldn't help but grin as he remembered the assured way she had all but dared them to call her a liar. Maybe JD did know how pick places to stay.

The mission here was two-fold. Not only were they here to search for clues, but also to gather JD's belongings. It was not a chore Ezra would enjoy, but at least he could spare Buck the task.

Deciding that the papers on the table were as likely a place to start as any, Ezra began sorting through them. The binder was actually a makeshift photo album. The pictures were neatly labeled in a soft feminine hand. Several pages were flagged with neon colored Post-it Notes in JD's familiar scrawl. 

A soft noise at the door drew his attention away from the books. Ezra marked his place, then went to open the door. "Mrs. Merrial, that was rather swift," he said, pulling open the door. 

Rather than Merrial's motherly features, Ezra found himself smiling down the barrel of a snub-nosed handgun.


	7. Wednesday, Minot - Merriel's Hotel - Part 2

Perception was a funny thing, Ezra decided. He had, over the course of his law enforcement career, dealt with a variety of small arms, including models similar to the one currently being waved in his face. And yet, despite a fairly intimate acquaintance with it, he was more than certain that it did not appear nearly so large from the other end.

His philosophizing was rather rudely brought to an end as the smirking intruder reached out with his free hand and took Ezra's weapon casually. He tucked the confiscated handgun into the waistband of his pants and gestured for Ezra to move back into the main room. The easy confidence in his movements marked him as a professional.

"Where's your friend?" he asked, not raising his voice above a whisper.

"That's what I am here to ascertain. The young man seems to have gone missing. A fact I am certain you are more than aware of," Ezra replied, keeping his voice low enough that he hopefully wouldn't be shot, but still - luck allowing, loud enough for Nathan to hear.

The intruder smiled knowingly. "Cute. Now call him in here. And no funny business."

Ezra grimaced at the cliché and reassessed his opinion of the gunman. With a sigh that sounded defeated, he called out, "Hey Nate. I think I've got something."

There was a brief pause, then Nathan answered, "Hang on. I'm almost done in here."

The gunman smiled confidently and forced Ezra to the center of the room. He then took up a position where he could easily cover both the door and Ezra.

Silence prevailed for a moment. From behind the door came the metal on metal protest of a window being forced open and the protesting shrieks of mattress springs being used as a trampoline. 

"Damnit," the gunman swore. He recovered quickly and gestured to the door. "You first."

Ezra didn't try to hide his grin as he opened the door on the predictably empty bedroom. "He will return with assistance," Ezra pointed out the obvious in a smug tone.

"Not if he can't reach anyone. Who was that?" He said, pulling out a cell phone.

"You'll have to direct your inquiry to the man in question," Ezra drawled as the closet door swung silently open to reveal his missing partner.

"Go ahead. Ask me." Nathan's tone was every bit as hard and cold as the barrel of the gun he pressed firmly against the stranger's spine.

Ezra smiled broadly as he stepped forward to recapture his gun. The grin deepened as he reached for the handgun held loosely in the other man's hand. "You aren't really going to make me say 'drop it,' are you?"

Outnumbered and now outgunned, the sensible thing would have been to give in and wait for a better opportunity. Disregarding sensible in the way that only the truly inept or supremely confident can, the man jerked away as Ezra's hand closed on the gun. Ezra was pulled off balance and sent sprawling by a well-placed kick. He tumbled clear of the struggle. 

Nathan was not so lucky. Even as he was moving on Ezra, the gunman pivoted, hooking Nathan's gun and hand under his free arm. With his arm pinned between the man's side and elbow, Nathan was pulled in close. A sharp blow to the sternum drove his breath from him.

Ezra regained his feet, only to be knocked away again. This time, he scooped up one of the fallen guns and sought to end the fight quickly. The other two were still too entangled for him to even think of lining up a shot. Nor did he want to risk backing off to cover both of them leaving Nathan as hostage.

Grabbing one of the solid metal lamps from the nightstand, Ezra plunged back in swinging the makeshift club. His blow clipped the intruder behind the ear and dropped him to the carpet.

Nathan stood slowly, bracing his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "Thanks for jumping in, Ezra. Hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"No trouble at all, Mr. Jackson. I'm sure we'll find some favor of recompense," Ezra replied, blithely ignoring the heavy sarcasm in Nathan's tone. He turned his attention to the incapacitated man at his feet. "Now, shall we see who our uninvited 'friend' is?"

The search for identification proved to be disappointingly futile. "Whoever this gentleman is, he's gone to extreme lengths to insure our task is difficult."

"I'm not so concerned about who he is, as I am about who his friends are and when they're planning on showing up. He wasn't going out that window after me himself."

"Which means his accomplices may well still be in the vicinity." 

Ezra was just about to set aside the jacket he was searching, when his fingers brushed across a stiff piece of paper. It took him a moment more of searching to find the mouth of the concealed pocket. The fax he withdrew gave them no answers, but instead presented several more questions. 

The information was of little value other than to rule out the possibility of a coincidence. The address of the hotel and JD's room number were listed, and nothing else. The letterhead was FBI that proclaimed the document 'Confidential.'

"Damn. Wonder whose side he's on?" Nathan mused out loud, a queasy feeling settling in his stomach. "I'm gonna call Chris. Let me know if he starts to come to."

Ezra only listened with half an ear as Nathan spoke with Chris. He finished his search of the man's pockets without turning up anything of interest. Their unknown guest would just have to remain unknown for a while yet.

Nathan ended the conversation and slipped his cell phone back into his jacket. "Agent Taffe is sending over someone to deal with this. Apparently they've decided that things look a little fishy."

"Really?" Ezra said dryly. "That completely escaped my notice."

Nathan grinned at him. "They'll clean up and find a safe house for Ms. Merrial. As soon as they get here, Chris wants us to head back to the hotel. He and Buck found something, but he didn't want to get into it over the phone." Nathan took a long look at the man on the floor. "He said NSA might be working an angle too."

Ezra's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "NSA? As in 'No-Such-Agency,' NSA?"

Nathan nodded.

"Dear Lord. What did Mr. Dunne get himself into?"

Nathan shrugged. "I don't know, but Chris seems to think this boy might be one of theirs."

"You mean we just killed an agent?" Ezra was steadily feeling more and more horrified by the entire situation. Players at this level were out of even his league. And if JD was caught up in their maneuverings, the young man didn't stand a chance.

"He's not dead. And what's this 'we'? You're the one who hit him."

"For shame, Mr. Jackson. It was on your behalf that I re-entered the bout."

"*You* clubbed him with a lamp."

"I would gladly have let you subdue him, but I felt we had more pressing issues."

"Fine. But if the 'Men in Black' show up, I'm blaming you."


	8. Wednesday, Boston

"I don't like it," Buck repeated for the sixth time since he and Chris had left Agent Taffe's office. "I don't like it, and I don't buy it."

Chris gave a noncommittal shrug as he unlocked the rental car. Buck would get it out of his system in a minute and then they could get down to business in earnest. 

"The kid's room has to be the closest thing they have to an actual crime scene." Buck was going through the motions of buckling his belt without being aware of them; his mind already spinning along a thousand reasons for the glaring oversight—none of them encouraging. "That crackerjack forensics team Taffe was crowin' about should have been all over that place."

The black sedan purred to life, and Chris shrugged. "What do you want me to do, Buck? Go back up and ask the man if he has a particular reason for not wanting JD found? We're here because he's letting us be here. Push him too hard and we lose what little help we have here."

"I still don't like it."

"No one's asking you to." The conversation lagged as Chris guided the car from the orderly shelter of the parking structure into the sprawling chaos of an unfamiliar city. 

Without any answer to Chris’s rather cool attitude, it was easier for Buck to lapse into a brooding silence than to voice the nagging fears plaguing him. The folders Agent Taffe had given them provided Buck a welcome distraction. He poured over them, committing every sparse detail to memory. 

The picture of Nikolai Zhellar kept drawing his attention. Intense eyes peered at Buck from across time. It was a look Buck had seen in JD's eyes on occasion. The kid's determined, cocky grin was there too; lurking just beyond the moment the camera captured.

Zhellar... Richland... whoever the hell he was, didn't look to be much older than JD was now. The black and white print was obviously a surveillance shot. Zhellar was relaxed, unguarded as he accepted a cigarette from his companion. The stance was at odds with the piercing gaze he sent directly into the camera lens.

The resemblance to JD was overwhelming. Though JD's features held an air of openness that would have looked out of place on this stranger's face. Even at such a tender age, Zhellar had the look of someone who had learned the score, and learned it well.

God willing, it was a knowledge Buck would never see reflected in JD's eyes.

A sharp turn sent the paper's spilling from Buck's lap to the floor. "Damnit, Chris," he snarled as he tried to gather the jumbled files. "Anyone ever tell you that you drive like a damned maniac?"

Chris cut the sedan back in the opposite direction, prying an opening into rush hour traffic. Horns and brakes squealed angry protest, but miraculously there was no accompanying rending of metal and glass.

Buck abandoned his attempt to gather the case file and braced himself against yet another wild turn. "Chris, what the fu—"

"Gray Lincoln, three cars back," Chris cut him off smoothly. "Hold on."

It was the only warning Buck received before Chris anchored the brakes and cranked hard on the wheel. The rental spun sideways, skidding amid the stench of hot rubber. Buck slammed hard against the door.

Without missing a beat, Chris dropped the car back into gear and floored it. Not built for performance, the sedan fishtailed before the momentum got behind the tires and sent them lurching forward. 

Buck couldn't stop the instinctive whoop that accompanied the adrenaline rush. He jerked against the seatbelt, drawn up short by the locking mechanism. Forcing himself to relax, Buck eased slack into the shoulder strap and turned to look back. 

The Lincoln executed its own erratic turn and accelerated after them. For a moment, the driver crossed the centerline. Buck could just make out his frantic motions as the man tried to regain control. 

In the oncoming lane, a red mini-van slammed hard on the brakes and swerved to avoid the collision. It hit the curb and jumped to the sidewalk. Pedestrians scattered. An elaborate window display exploded inward; while the Lincoln managed to scrape by unhindered.

Chris took a hard right, rocking Buck back into his seat. The engine roared as he raced away from the accident scene.

"Call Vin," Chris said, checking on their pursuers.

Rather than make the call, Buck said, "Funeral."

"Probably, but not if I can help it," Chris said, irritated at Buck's non sequitur.

"No," Buck said and jerked on Chris’s arm to draw the blonde agent's attention forward. He pointed to the rapidly approaching intersection. "FUNERAL." 

A long black hearse was just entering the right of way. A line of slow moving cars trailed after.

"SHIT!" Chris slammed on the brakes, looking frantically for somewhere to go.

The Lincoln accelerated, smashing into their rear bumper. The sedan lurched forward violently. Caught between a rock and a hard place, Chris gunned the engine. Laying on the horn in warning, he made for the narrow gap between the hearse and the first car of mourners. 

The driver of the hearse upon hearing the horns immediately slowed, looking around for the source of the commotion. The following car would have slowed as well, had they not panicked when Chris and Buck went shooting across the street in a blur of silver. 

Applying the brakes a split-second too late, they slammed into the back of the long black car ahead of them. The hearse jumped as though it had been kicked, the bay doors flying open. 

A single strap held the coffin secure in the sling that provided a smooth ride to its final resting place. Under the violent forces working on it, the strap snapped. 

Faced with a bulky mahogany and brass bullet, the first driver swerved out of the way—leaving the driver behind him to its mercy. The coffin ricocheted off the driver's door panel and then back down the hill they'd just climbed. It streaked between the swerving vehicles, a last detour before eternity. 

In the chaos that ensued, nobody noticed the two men who scowled after the disappearing silver car. They climbed back into their gray Lincoln without checking the body damage. The driver slammed the vehicle into reverse, heedless of pedestrians. Executing a quick U-turn, they roared back in the direction they'd come from.


	9. Wednesday, Boston - Safehouse

Ioseph Simovitz leaned back in his chair, sipping absently at tea that had long since lost any remnant of heat. Light from the closed-circuit monitor glinted off his wire-frame glasses.

The glasses were for show, like much of his life. His eyesight was still as strong as it had been when he was twenty. In fact, he hadn't changed much in the ensuing years. A few more lines around his eyes. A streak of gray through the wild shock of dark hair he could never quite tame. All in all, the years had been kind to Ioseph.

His scars were carved not on his features, but on his heart. The scene he watched on the small black and white TV screen was stirring one of the older and deeper wounds.

He wondered for a moment what had changed. Something was tipping hands in the delicate game they played. After so many years, why would anyone try to track him down? No, not him. Joseph Richland. A man who didn't even exist. Who had barely ever existed. A face he'd worn, like countless others. One that he rarely, if ever, thought about.

Yet he could remember nearly every second he spent as Richland with an almost crystal clarity. And somehow, someone had figured out why those memories were etched so deeply.

He didn't look up as the door behind him opened to admit someone. It could only be Avel. None of the others here knew him well enough to intrude. But Avel... Avel had been with him for a long time. Assignments had parted them nearly as often as they'd worked together, but always he knew that Avel at least could be trusted.

Without turning his eyes from the screen, Ioseph said, "Well, you've spoken with him. What do you think?"

Avel drew closer, where he too could study the image that held his friend rapt. Even through the grainy quality of the picture, the details translated clearly. A young man was slumped against tight bonds that held him upright in a heavy wooden chair. Despite his unconscious state, it was easy to see that his rest was not a peaceful one. He frowned lightly as he slept, the expression sheltered by unruly hair that fell as it would. 

Even though he could not see them from here, Avel knew that sobbing breaths were shuddering through the lithe frame. Just the way they had been when he'd left the boy only moments before.

The blonde man knew he was avoiding Ioseph's question. He also knew that the question would be repeated until he answered it. For a man whose life was built on secrets, Ioseph was surprisingly intolerant of them in other people.

With a sigh, he looked away from the screen and said lightly, "They did their work well, but he cannot be who he claims."

"Why? Because you say so? He looks like her."

"Of course he does. That's why they sent him," Avel said neutrally.

Ioseph continued to watch the sleeping man. "Did he admit that he was an agent?"

"He did. But he insists that he is Jonathan Daniel Dunne, son of Katherine Dunne. Father unknown. He's asking for Richland."

Ioseph tore his gaze away. "I always wondered..." He fingered the ID Avel had taken from the boy. "He's the right age. And he does favor her."

"It means nothing, Ioseph. Just that they did their homework well in choosing him."

"But why? Why after all these years? What do they have to gain by this?"

Avel thought on it for a moment. He shrugged. "I gave up trying to figure out any of it a long time ago. He's not your son."

"Then who is he?"

"I don't know." He gestured to the monitor. "Do you really care? It was a long time ago. You had an assignment, and you did it."

"It wasn't that long ago. And I walked away." Ioseph shook his head. "The only mission I ever walked away from."  
"They know that, and they use it against you." He gestured to the monitor. "He's waking up. I'll go try again."

He left the room before Ioseph could offer his thoughts on the matter. Thoughtfully he turned his attention back to the screen. Avel was right. This was not his child. Kathrine had sworn that she'd never tell anyone. To do so would have risked all their lives. And when his Ketya made a vow, she kept it. He knew that.  
But he did have to admit the boy was good. Avel had been questioning him for hours and he'd yet to slip from his story. In a grudging sort of way, he admired the young man. He could remember being in his place a time or two. When he was younger- much younger, and filled with enough bravado to get any three men killed. Yet it always managed to carry him through.  
Thoughts of the past stirred Ketya's ghost. He half chuckled at the morose thoughts he was having about a woman he didn't even know for sure was dead. He sincerely hoped not, but the boy had been adamant on that point. He imagined it must be true. It was too easily confirmed for the boy to bother with a lie.

Odd that after all these years, the thought of one woman, an assignment no less, still haunted him.

On the screen before him, Avel began the interrogation again. Ioseph noticed absently that his friend's techniques had gotten more efficient over the years. He'd have to ask Avel about it later. But for now, he wanted to meet this young man who presumed to be his son.

Avel gave him an indulgent look as he entered the small room. Without a word, the blonde man gathered up his things and slipped from the room leaving Ioseph alone with the boy. 

For a long moment he just stood there, studying the young man. Avel was right. Someone had done their homework well. The resemblance was even more striking up close. 

The drugs Avel had pumped into the boy still coursed through his veins. He trembled slightly under the harsh spot light. Sensing motion within the room, he flinched away, struggling against the heavy leather bonds that held him. Coal lashes fluttered open to reveal glazed and fever-bright hazel eyes.

Ioseph felt a shock of recognition flit through him. Ketya's eyes. He had her eyes. The thought broke free before he could quench it. Just as quickly as it formed, he turned it aside. The boy was a pawn, used for his resemblance to a dead woman.

Anger towards those who should have been responsible for the young man surged through him. Where was his support team? Surely, they hadn't cut him off. Without help, the boy would not survive. Even if he gave in to Avel's ministrations before there was permanent damage, his death would be ordered by men who would never have to actually look into those eyes. 

Ioseph closed his own eyes, trying to block the boy's frightened gaze from his mind. Maybe it was time for him to get out of the game. Go home - wherever that was. The government would pay him a handsome pension, a ransom to keep him from freelancing.

This was a young man's sport, and Ioseph felt old. He'd outlived most of his peers; his opponents as well. He'd even outlived the country he'd served. Time and people moved on, adapted. Ioseph wanted none of that.

Ioseph took another look at the young captive and revised his musings. This was no man's sport. Young or old. It was a game played by two nations. Men were pawns to them. Game pieces to be used for their talents, then tossed aside.

This boy drove that realization home. One needless death too many, in a career checkered with them. He aroused pity in a man who'd sworn off such emotions. The boy would die. And there was nothing Ioseph could do about it. 

He resisted the paternal urge to brush the hair from the boy's face. Bad enough he was identifying with the young man, he didn't need to actually act on those impulses.

As he turned to leave, the boy's mutterings seemed to clear and translate themselves. The words were disjointed, but the rhythm carried. Ioseph didn't need to hear the lyrics. He knew them by heart and they wrenched the breath from him. The last time he'd heard them out loud was on his final night as Richland. A sweet, drowsy voice had crooned them softly into his chest. A lullaby. Not for him, but for the child he would never meet.


	10. Wednesday Night, Boston, Hotel

"I don't suppose it's ever occurred to you gentlemen," Ezra drawled as he dropped the duffle bag he'd retrieved from JD's hotel room on the end of Buck's bed, "that security deposits are only returned on those rarest of occasions when the vehicle remains unscathed?" 

"Did quite a number on the car," Nathan added. "You boys okay?"

"It looks worse than it is," Chris assured them. "Buck just made a couple new friends." He tipped his chair back on two legs to look up at them without craning his neck. "You two get anything new?"

"Only a keener loathing for monochromatic suits," Ezra lowered himself into the second chair with a suffering sigh of offended aesthetics, before finishing, "and pointless questions." He cocked his head to one side. "Mr. Larabee, have I ever truly expressed my gratitude at being rescued from the ranks of such blatant mediocrity?"

"He's just cranky," Nathan supplied, settling on the bed Chris had claimed. "He had to get his hands dirty."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Jackson. My hands are as immaculate as ever." Ezra held up his hands to illustrate the fact in a gesture that Chris felt certain was considered obscene somewhere in the world.

Nathan chose to ignore the daylong argument. "Where's Buck?"

"Vin and Josiah convinced him to get some air. They went to get something to eat."

Nathan approved of the tactic. It would be better for Buck to have something to do, even something as trivial as picking up take-out. It was either keep Buck busy, or start sedating the man. He considered the matter for a moment longer, and then started a brief run-down of what he and Ezra had learned from the FBI agents. 

By the time he'd recounted the exchange, glossing over the inter-agency posturing, the others had returned. Over Chinese that was no credit to its heritage, they tallied the clues available. The sum of their knowledge was depressing.

Ezra, after the third pass through JD's picture album, leaned back and asked, "Does anyone else ever wonder if we are imparting bad habits on Mr. Dunne?"

Buck scowled at Ezra. He'd had the bringing up of JD. If bad habits were being 'imparted,' they were his. "What are you sayin', Ez?" 

Ezra smiled in appeasement. "Outside the six of us here, and JD, do you know anyone else who could encounter this caliber of adversity while merely on vacation?"

Nathan chuckled. "That boy could create a crisis out of a mud puddle."

Even Buck had to laugh at that. The release, however temporary, felt good. 

Chris brought them back to focus. "Where do we go from here?"

"You think we'll find anything?" Nathan was combing the letters from Katie to Juliana for places JD may have checked. "This trail is twenty years cold."

"JD found somethin'," Vin pointed out. "And his tracks'll be a lot fresher."

Josiah nodded. "Vin's right. JD wasn't trying to hide his investigation. He was working off the same information we've got here. If we just follow him, we'll find whoever he spooked. And if he's still --"

"He is." Buck stressed the words, his tone low and dangerous, daring any of them to suggest differently.

Josiah and Nathan exchanged worried looks. "Now, Buck. Just 'cause-"

Buck cut Nathan off sharply. "Don't you 'Now, Buck' me, Nathan Jackson. That boy is alive. I know it. He sure as hell wouldn't bet against any one 'a us. And I for one, don't want to tell him that we couldn't do the same."

"Buck," Josiah tried softly. He wanted to believe too, but Buck's denial was frightening to watch.

"No. Don't say it! Don't you say it! Hear me out first. Whoever did this wanted it to look like JD was dead. Why? Because a murder investigation goes slower than a kidnapping investigation. You can take your time, be more exact. You're building a case, not a rescue." Buck was talking fast, afraid to lose momentum and let doubt creep any further into his heart. 

"They didn't care about making it look like an accident. Witnesses saw cars chasing the motorcycle. And today. If they wanted this to look like an accident, they wouldn't have come gunning for us." 

Josiah interrupted, "Buck, where you going with this?"

"JD was here asking questions that made somebody real nervous. Now we're here doing the same. They must need something else from him, or we would have found his body and gone home."

"We aren't ruling anything out. But we have to be practical."

"Fuck practical." Buck exploded out of his chair. He stormed out onto the balcony, slamming the sliding glass door closed so hard that it bounced open again. He ignored it and focused his attention over the brick railing.

Someone, Chris probably, understood Buck's need for solitude and slid the door shut. 

Buck was alone with his thoughts and the overwhelming urge to start crying. He wouldn't though. Couldn't. No tears. Tears were for mourning. At deaths, endings... 

He would not cry, because he was not in mourning. He refused. A strength of will that had seen both himself and Chris through the black months after Sarah and Adam's death, now turned inward. He wouldn't believe that JD was dead. 

All he needed was a little faith. His mother had told him that once. A little faith could move mountains. And she'd never lied to him. So Buck Wilmington had become an expert at faith in lost causes.

"Where are you, kid?" He addressed the dull throb of the still active city. His words were for one set of ears. "Just hang on a little longer, JD. We're on the way. And, son? Don't do anything stupid."

He would save his tears for a time they were needed. 

Buck turned away from the cityscape before him, abandoning the sanctuary of the balcony for the muted concern the others offered. The sliding glass door opened with a rush of air, drying the moisture on his cheeks that he stoically refused to acknowledge.


	11. Thursday - Boston, Safehouse

JD knew without opening his eyes that he wasn't alone. He could feel someone watching him curiously. There didn't seem to be any threat behind the gaze, just an intense interest.

He held still, trying to feign the posture and breathing patterns of sleep. His memories were hazy, but the warning prickles of danger were still there. Until he'd sorted out the images from the past few days, he wanted to cling to whatever sanctuary sleep brought him.

His observer seemed content with the situation and JD let several minutes slide by, before impatience and curiosity won out. He opened his eyes slowly. Disappointed, but not all together surprised, he found himself back in the barren bedroom from before.

He pushed himself up, suppressing a gasp as his tender abdominal muscles protested the motion. Once he was leaning against the headboard, and as settled as he was likely to get, he looked at the other man. For a long moment, they simply regarded each other impassively.

Ioseph broke the silence first. "You have her eyes," he observed neutrally.

"That's funny, she always said I favored you," JD replied just as blandly.

"So you do know who I am." It was a statement rather than a question.

"I can guess."

"Would have been easier if you hadn't. Why'd you come?"

"Beginning to wish I hadn't." JD chuckled ruefully. "This isn't exactly what I expected."

Ioseph continued to study him intently. "What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know. A hug. Tears. Shouting. Maybe a brother or sister. Acceptance. Banishment. Nothing." It felt odd, after everything that had happened, to be sitting here discussing things so calmly. 

Part of JD wanted to rail at this man. Years of questions and emotions had built up to this moment. And yet he was unable to express any of it. 

He had a father. Just as simple as that.

A father. The word should have been impressive. It had been before. In his childhood it had meant protection... companionship... family. Ball in the park. Help with his homework. Everything that his mother had given to him, trying to fill both her role and the one that belonged to this man. 

Now he was here, in front of JD. And all JD could think of was that he didn't even know the man's name. "Who was Joseph Richland?"

"I am. Or was. A long time ago."

"Did you love her?" He lifted his head, hazel eyes dark with a silent challenge. 

"Does it matter?" Ioseph was suddenly tired. As if all his years at once decided to catch him at once, weighing him down.

JD didn't answer, just clenched his jaw tightly and maintained a glare that Chris would have been proud of.

Ioseph sighed. "I did. Still do, I suppose."

"Why?"

"Why what? Why'd I love her?" He tore his gaze away from the eyes were so very much like hers, with their green highlights sparking in suppressed anger. "I wasn't supposed to. And at first I didn't. But Ketya had such a... fire about her. Just being near her made me feel alive." Ioseph drifted for a moment, caught up in the memory of a pretty, dark-haired girl with laughing eyes.

"Or do you want to know why I left? It wasn't easy, you know. But it was the only option available. Best for everyone if Joseph Richland just vanished." 

"Yeah. I can see where a Christmas card or a phone call would be real dangerous." JD's tone was biting.

"What do you want from me?" Ioseph demanded.

JD was oddly satisfied that he'd managed to anger the other man. "An explanation would be a start."

"You don't ask for much, do you?"

"I just came here to find out about my father. Tell me about him and I'll go. Be out of your life forever. That's one lesson you taught me." JD's own temper was flaring. 

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." JD enunciated each word clearly and slowly.

"I met Katie when I-"

"That's not what you called her before."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Ketya. You called her Ketya earlier. Which is it?"

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry." JD's tone said he was anything but.

"Anyway. It was in the days when I still believed in the system. I was a student at the time, interested in political science. Young. Idealistic. I thought I could change the world. Your mother was smart, beautiful, and had access to one of the most powerful men in Washington."

He paused for a brief moment, waiting for JD to say something. The interruption didn't come and Ioseph continued. "At first I thought she would give me a chance to meet the Senator, share my thoughts with him. It didn't take long to realize Termaine's wife barely spoke with him, let alone the boyfriend of his maid."

"But I still kept going back. For a while I wrote it off as pride. Arrogance that wouldn't admit defeat. But it was more than that. I found reasons to be there, even when I knew the Senator wasn't in residence. Stopped asking about him. I stopped caring about him. She was my whole life. I told my friends that I had the Termaine's ear, that I was making progress. Anything I could think of to avoid moving on."

"You obviously got over that." The cutting tone was back.

"I told you. I didn't have a choice."

"A friend of mine told me there is always a choice."

"Your friend is a dreamer. Politics were... complicated, to say the least. And I was less than discrete. If I had stayed, she would have been in danger." 

"What danger? You were a student."

"Don't be naive. The system was... is corrupt and I made enemies who were more powerful than my friends. So - I told Katie good-bye and headed for South America. From there I just kept drifting. Africa. Europe. The Balkans. Just went from cause to cause, until eventually I returned here."

JD watched his face intently while he spoke. The words were soothing, crafted to appease him. The way Ezra talked when he was working a cover. "It's a good story. How long did you take to come up with it?"

"I told you what happened. If you don't want to believe it, don't."

"No. You told me what you thought I wanted to hear." JD's eyes flashed dangerously. "You don't kidnap someone over political intrigue that's more than 20 years old. You don't kidnap them. You don't throw motorcycles off cliffs. You... don't," JD's words slowed as the situation dawned on him. "You don't stage their deaths so you can interrogate them in peace."

His eyes met Ioseph's, betrayal glittering brightly. "Just who the hell are you?"

The question hung in the air between them, an almost palpable barrier. If JD had been subtle or sly, like those who Ioseph was accustomed to dealing with, he would have had no trouble crafting a story. But the inherent simplicity, yet infinite complexity of the question demanded that it be answered in kind. 

Almost without thinking, he gave the one answer he'd meant to withhold- the truth.

"I am Ioseph Simovitz. Your father."

Like a benediction, he gave his true name. Not one of many that had been crafted to deceive, but his name. A fine and fierce name. The name of his ancestors. This most precious of birthrights- heritage, history, identity. All this- years too late- he offered up to his son.


	12. Thursday - Boston, Forensics Lab

The waiting room was filled with over-stuffed furniture and inviting colors. As if someone had consciously sought to counter the cold business that went on behind the heavy security door with a painter's pallet and upholsterer's nail-gun. 

Josiah recognized the effort for what it was. Oddly, he found it worked. Of course, they weren't heading to the sub-basement like most people that found themselves in this place. He was forever grateful for that. A trip to the morgue... Well, it was never an enjoyable experience. And when one was going to retrieve a friend...

Buck's stubborn declaration that JD was still alive echoed in Josiah's mind. He glanced to where Vin was studying the trees and manicured gardens beyond the window. Buck wasn't the only one in denial. Maybe it would have been better if they were headed to the morgue. 

At least with a body there would be closure. A finality that not even Buck could deny. Josiah knew his friend had convinced himself that they were on a rescue mission, rather than a recovery. Buck would cling to that false hope until there was a body to show him. And if they ever produced the proof... 

Josiah was torn between wanting to grieve and eventually heal, and the desire to keep searching. Rationally it would be best for everyone to move on, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was abandoning JD. His musings ended as the door opened and a tall blonde woman stepped out. He rose to greet her.

"Eve Irwin. I assume you're here about the FBI's motorcycle?" her accent was clipped and sharp, words fired off in rapid staccato.

Josiah nodded, thrown slightly by her abrupt mannerisms. "Yes, ma'am." He introduced himself and Vin. She gave them an appraising once over, then turned on her heel and left the way she'd entered. Josiah shot a questioning look to Vin. The other agent just shrugged and followed after her.

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Ms. Irwin," Josiah said, lengthening his stride to make up for her head start. 

She stopped in front of a closed doorway. The etched glass inset denoted Lab C. "We can speak in here." She unlocked the lab door and ushered them in. "I owe Mike Taffe a couple of favors. Normally, you'd have a day or two wait. We're understaffed at the moment and the backlog of work just keeps piling up. But Mike insisted this was important. And like I said, I owe him. So I've been handling this case myself." 

"We appreciate the effort. And it's good to know the stories we've heard about MSP Crime Lab aren't exaggerations."

Josiah decided that Vin had been spending entirely too much time with Ezra. For a moment, he was almost certain that the southern agent was in the hallway charming the head of the forensic unit. The method paid off though.

Eve's cheeks colored slightly. "And what stories are those, Mr... Tanner, was it?" 

"Just that you've managed to put together a first rate crew and the agencies in the area are extremely lucky."

She flushed further and actually smiled. "I'm glad we don't disappoint." The professional image slid back into place, though decidedly more relaxed. "I found several things of interest. I just faxed our preliminary findings over to Mike. He asked me to go over it with you in person."

"What did you find?" Josiah hated to risk the rapport Vin had built with the woman, but they were on a mission.

She apparently didn't notice his impatience, or didn't care. She pulled out a folder and handed it to Josiah. "Here. That's the official word. I can tell you that this was no accident. We recovered a rifle slug. The shot took out the rear tire before lodging in the framework. It was too mangled to be much use in ballistics..."

Josiah nodded absently as he read over the report. The second page caught his eye and he looked up sharply. "You recovered fingerprints?"

"Several sets. Though with a rental, I'm not surprised. That's one of the other things I wanted to discuss. The bike was never submerged. The fingerprints were too well preserved, and there was no salt water in the engine."

"Meaning?" Josiah could hear Vin trying to bite back the eagerness in his voice. 

"Meaning, your friend didn't go over with the bike. We would have found him. The officer located the motorcycle at 12:05. High tide was at 11:45, but yesterday was a negative tide. Even at its highest point, it would have barely reached the rocks the bike was on. If Agent Dunne had been there to find, we would have found him."

Vin didn't even try to mask the exuberant grin he flashed at Josiah.


	13. Friday - Boston, Safehouse

"I'm done," Ioseph announced over whole-wheat toast and eggs-over-easy.

Avel barely flicked a glance over the top of the file he was reading. "You've barely touched your eggs." He turned the page. "Eat."

"I don't mean breakfast," Ioseph said, not bothering to be annoyed by Avel's deliberate obtuseness. "I mean this. What kind of life is this?"

"Don't knock it. It's kept you warm enough over the years," Avel shot back, setting aside his folder. 

"Warm?" Ioseph laughed bitterly. "I've spent so much time out in the cold; I don't even remember what it feels like to come in." He shook his head. "As soon as I take care of... a few details, I'm out."

"Details?" Avel frowned. "You mean our guest."

"Among other things. But yes, I'll make arrangements for the boy."

"Arrangements have already been made," Avel's tone was lightly scolding.

"Unmake them." Ioseph knew he was being foolish, offering up this vulnerability so readily. He didn't even fully understand his own conflicted emotions. It was hardly a surprise; he'd known from Avel's first call that the boy would die. He just hadn't known he would care. 

His friend watched him with predatory interest, cold calculations openly reflected in his icy blue eyes. 

Ioseph turned his attention back to breakfast, avoiding the assessing look from Avel. "I owe his mother that much." 

Avel was clearly skeptical of the excuse, but ignored it for the time being. "It's not my decision, Ioseph. Not anymore. Even if it was..." he didn't finish the thought. Didn't have to. 

Death was a fact of this life. You were expected to die before betraying any secrets. You expected that your family -- such that it was -- would do likewise. Intellectually, Ioseph knew this. Accepted it even. At least he had when said family was purely hypothetical. Before JD, there hadn't actually been a family to consider; no one to supplant country as his sole master.

His parents were both gone, years ago. A younger brother and sister hadn't survived childhood. In the past thirty years, the single constant person in his life was Avel. And even he had been a sporadic presence at best. 

The world was topsy-turvy and Ioseph found he couldn't quite get his bearings. "I'm asking for your help, Avel. I need this."

"What do you want me to do, Ioseph?" Avel asked. "There are other people I have to be concerned with. As it is, with all the attention, we'll have to relocate. It'll take months. Months that, frankly, I don't have. Your boy has brought all kinds of hellfire down on us. We'll both be lucky to get through this with our necks intact." 

Avel was on a roll now, warming to his lecture. "There are people tearing the whole damned state apart looking for the kid. If we just let him go, they will want answers. Answers they can't have. And that means they can't find him to ask." 

"Even if I could just put him back where I found him," Avel continued, "he'll be a marked man. His own government won't trust him. The CIA? FBI? They'll dog his every step. His career? Over. No one will allow the son of a known foreign operative enough security clearance to check a book out of the library."

"Maybe they don't know?" Ioseph was grasping at straws, and he knew it. "He's a federal officer. They do investigate when one of their own goes missing."

"They know." Avel dug through the file jackets at his elbow. The third one he selected contained photos. "Here. These two," he said pointing to a pair of men standing outside a bright blue cottage. "ATF. Part of a group of six that arrived from Denver yesterday." He passed other snapshots across the table. "Already they've reached out to most of the people on Dunne's list. It's just a matter of time before they find something useful."

Ioseph picked up the photograph, memorizing the faces of the men. The kernel of an idea began to form. He may have found himself without friends in this mess; that didn't mean his son had.

Avel selected another photograph. The man featured was bland, unmemorable; exactly as he'd been trained to be. He was seated in front of the same building as the first picture. Someone with their back turned to the camera was bandaging his head. "This guy," Avel said. "This guy is the interesting one. He's NSA. If he's sniffing around, you can be certain they know plenty."

"Who jumped him?" Ioseph asked.

That brought a chuckle from Avel. "Would you believe they did?" he said, tapping the first picture. "My point, Ioseph, is that this won't just go away. I'm sorry. Best I can do is give you a few days. But then I have to send you back out."

"I meant it, Avel," Ioseph said, dabbing a corner of his toast into the yolk of his egg. "I'm done. With all of it."

Avel put away the photos and picked up the file he'd originally been reading. "Just... don't do anything rash."

Ioseph was gearing up for an argument when JD and his escort entered the kitchen. 

Avel had begrudgingly given permission for JD to take his meals in the kitchen because it was an easy way to placate Ioseph. It was an arrangement that rankled. To his mind prisoners were prisoners, no matter what mid-life crisis Ioseph was experiencing.

A veil dropped over JD's features at the sight of Avel, snuffing the flicker of fear almost as fast as it sparked. Only the briefest misstep -- an unconscious tensing -- betrayed him. Nothing more to suggest he remembered his interrogation at Avel's hands. He snapped his eyes at Ioseph.

Defiant, he took a seat at the kitchen bar, as though this were the most normal breakfast in the history of breakfasts. From across the room, Ioseph could see the faint tremble in his hands. JD curled his hands into fists, willing the panic from his body.

Oblivious to the drama playing out around him, Genya, the younger of the two junior agents in residence, began cooking breakfast. As the bacon crackled in the pan, Kuzma, the senior agent and Genya's cousin, entered with the morning reports for Avel.

While listening to Kuzma, a mountain that had been dressed up in a suit and taught basic grammar, relay his morning briefing to Avel; Ioseph reached a decision. As soon as the hulking agent finished and withdrew, Ioseph stood. Ideas buzzed in his head. "Whatever you need," he told Avel, "I'll do it. Just buy me a few days." He bussed his plate to the sink and left the kitchen. JD's sharp gaze made his shoulder blades itch all the way to the garage.

With Ioseph gone, Avel turned his attention to the stack of intelligence reports at his elbow. Though nowhere near the volume of information he'd once processed, he still found pleasure in the simple task of choosing what his superiors in Moscow would learn. Today, however, he couldn't concentrate. Instead, he found himself trying to pinpoint the exact moment he'd lost control.

It had all started with the kid. A week ago, everything was status quo. But now? Avel heaved a long-suffering sigh. Now Ioseph was ready to quit and take the whole system apart to get what he wanted. And all the extra attention forced Avel to place his own interests on hold.

JD dropped into the chair across from Avel without invitation. For several minutes he sat there, fingers tapping an indecipherable rhythm that disrupted Avel's thought process. He seemed to be chewing something over.

Avel, for his part, buried his nose in a report and did his best to ignore the interloper.

"How long have you known..." JD stumbled for the proper address, "Ioseph?"

"You know I can't tell you that. As your people say, it's classified." He gave JD an insincere smile. This wasn't how things were supposed to work. Prisoners did not get the run of the house. They did not engage their captors in conversation. And they most certainly didn't ask questions.

"Who'm I gonna tell?" JD shot back, changing the tempo of his dancing fingers.

Avel arched an eyebrow. "CNN?"

JD had the audacity to chuckle. "Yeah. Not exactly a brilliant line. Seriously, what could it hurt? It's one question."

"Do you actually understand what we do here?"

JD's expression stopped just short of eye rolling, but his tone was dead serious. "I understand more than you think. I understand that there's no way you're gonna just let me walk away from this. So, if I'm a dead man anyway, what does it hurt to tell me how long you've known Ioseph?"

"Twenty-eight years," Avel answered, though he couldn't think of a single reason why he should.

"So you knew him when he met my mom." There was no question in his declaration. Just another piece of the puzzle the kid was assembling in his head.

"I did." Avel acknowledged. A sly and wicked thought crossed his mind. "Though if I'd known it would lead to you, I would never have suggested her to Ioseph." He allowed himself a malicious smirk as JD tried to process the various implications. "Now if you'll excuse me." 

It was a dismissal and even JD knew better than to push his luck without Ioseph nearby. He just nodded absently and moved back to the island where Genya was plating breakfast. Avel settled back into his reports and wondered again about the exact moment he'd lost control.


	14. Friday - Boston, University

It was a week for teasing old ghosts. Four days ago, Ioseph had been happily ensconced in life as Joshua Michaels. Well, ensconced. Four days ago, he would have laughed at the thought of ever sitting in this office again. Of course, four days ago, JD had yet to burst into his life and upend decades of carefully constructed facade.

A hurricane would have caused less upheaval.

The old man puttering about the office could have been lifted directly from Ioseph's memory. Thomas Pedersen -- the only name Ioseph had for the elderly professor -- hadn't changed much in the past twenty years. A little more waist and a little less hair, but otherwise he was just the same. And Ioseph didn't let himself think for a second that Professor Pedersen would miss a single trick. He'd invented a fair number of them.

Settling into the worn leather chair, Thomas leveled a piercing blue gaze at him that had been known to drop undergraduates in their tracks for going on forty years. Even when said undergraduates were passing on status reports disguised as political science papers. "I was surprised to hear your name again, my boy." A cup of tea materialized in his hand. "Very surprised. Even more so when the lad asking after you turned up the spitting image of my favorite student from the old days."

"Imagine how I felt." Ioseph shrugged. He wasn't sure what he was looking for here. But Pedersen had a knack for pushing him in the right direction. "How did he find you?"

"Letters. From his mother, I believe." Pedersen took a long sip, projecting an air of disapproval. "I remember this girl. You got sloppy, my friend, very sloppy."

"It was a long time ago," Ioseph said, mildly. The rhythm of the conversation was familiar. For a moment he was twenty again, trying desperately to impress his controller. 

"He thinks you're his father."

"So I've heard."

"Are-"

Ioseph shrugged again. The answer was as obvious as the nose on JD's face.

Pedersen nodded. "Ah. That complicates things." He tut-tutted to himself, the perfect picture of a harmless, eccentric old professor. Ioseph didn't believe it. "Had I known, I wouldn't have set the hounds after him."

Ioseph didn't believe that either.

"Does Avel know?" Pedersen started to ask. "Of course he does. Smarter than he looks, that one. But then, he'd have to be." The old man took his glasses off. "Be careful, lad. I hear rumors." 

Before Ioseph could press him further, there was a light knock at the door. Pedersen got up to answer and Ioseph followed. "I should go," he said, shaking the professor's hand. He flicked a glance toward the flash drive Pedersen had pressed into his palm. He pocketed it without comment; some habits die hard.

Pedersen opened the door. Two men stood in the hallway beyond. One tall and grizzled, his hand raised to knock again. The other was slighter, more Ioseph's height -- though scruffy enough to warrant a sidelong glance. The first started his introduction to Pedersen, and then took a hard look at Ioseph. His words faded unspoken.

Recognition bloomed in his eyes. Ioseph was moving before the pronouncement "It's Richland" left the other man's lips. Pedersen slammed the door shut, catching his guest's foot in the jam. He struggled to force the door shut, throwing his weight against the eruption in the hallway.

Ioseph sprinted to the window. The wooden frame shrieked a protest at being opened so violently. Ioseph barely paused to gauge the distance before throwing himself to the lower roof some ten feet below. 

He grunted and rolled with the impact. Leaves coated the ancient shingles and Ioseph half slid, half scrambled to a stop. One foot braced against the gutter, keeping him from plunging the remaining thirty feet to the courtyard below. Ioseph rose on unsteady knees, staggering a few steps before gaining his footing. He dashed along the edge as quickly as he dared. 

From behind him came the heavy crashing of pursuit. Ioseph swore under his breath. An open rooftop was no place for a chase. 

Up ahead, a heavy drain pipe attached to the gutter. Ioseph flung himself upon the pipe without testing the drain's strength first. Metal groaned and quivered under his weight, but held. He slid, faster than he intended. A brace sliced his hand, tearing the skin on his palm. 

Cursing and crashing, he came to an abrupt stop in the shrubbery at the base of the building. Ioseph extricated himself and scrambled away. The scruffy man from the hallway was just starting his own, more controlled descent.

Pain surged through Ioseph's ankle -- twisted in his crash landing. He'd never make it to the parking lot and his waiting car. A stand of aspen backed the college property -- twenty years ago it had been a handy place for covert meetings. Assuming it hadn't been paved over; the trees should provide adequate cover. 

He was panting by the time he hit the tree line, a realization that both surprised and annoyed him. The man on his trail was fifteen years younger, and having no problem closing the gap. 

Ioseph let the trees envelope him, drawing the chase further into the woods. Slipping on fallen leaves and dodging tree trunks with barely controlled desperation. He'd gotten shockingly sloppy. Meeting Pedersen in a place that the opponent already knew was the mistake of a short-lived beginner. He deserved to get caught.

The man behind him was smart. He wasn't running blind. Instead he was pushing Ioseph ahead of him, following too close for ambush. At the same time, he held back, letting Ioseph wear himself down. The man was a hunter. 

A fallen tree blocked the path and Ioseph threw himself over the top. The trunk had disguised a short drop off into a stream bed. His already twisted ankle rolled on impact. Pain staggered Ioseph. He splashed backward through the shin-deep water, and pressed into the soft earth of the undercut bank. He drew his handgun and waited.

Scruffy cleared the tree trunk and made the same mistake Ioseph had; though his landing was considerably more graceful. He floundered in the shallow water for a half a step and then froze when he saw Ioseph. And Ioseph's gun. 

His hesitation only lasted for a moment before his shoulder twitched, moving for the gun inevitably concealed on his person. Ioseph buried a round in the riverbank over Scruffy's shoulder. 

"The next one won't miss," Ioseph warned, trying not to let on how winded he was.

"'Preciate the one that did," he admitted. "Ain't looking for trouble. Just want to find the kid." 

"You shouldn't have sent him," Ioseph admonished, trying to get his feet under him and keep Scruffy covered at the same time.

"Nobody sent him," Scruffy said. "He came looking for you."

Scruffy's friend was crashing through the underbrush heading straight for them, foregoing stealth for massive and pissed off. Ioseph's attention wavered for a second, eyes flickering from Scruffy to the sound. It was all the chance Scruffy needed. He was gone in a heartbeat, disappearing into the underbrush like a ghost.

Swearing, Ioseph scrambled up the bank as best he could. No sign of the other man. Scruffy's friend, however, was still making a ruckus. Ioseph decided to head in the opposite direction as quickly as possible. 

Behind him, a twig snapped.

Ioseph started to spin, but unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel digging into his neck stopped him short. Disgusted with himself, he let his pistol swing from two fingers. Scruffy took the gun from him cautiously, tucking it into a pocket. Then he used his free hand to pat Ioseph down. 

Satisfied that Ioseph didn't have any more particularly lethal surprises for him, he stepped back. The gun didn't waver. Ioseph noted with no small satisfaction that Scruffy hadn't come through their chase entirely unscathed.

Scruffy dug out an ID wallet and flipped open a badge. "Vin Tanner, ATF." He waited expectantly.

"Joseph Richland, newly unaffiliated," Ioseph countered.


	15. Friday - Boston, Hotel

The hotel room was hushed, stifled beneath the weight of three days futile searching. Buck sat at the glass table, checking and rechecking each scrap they had. Josiah's call from the lab had reinvigorated Buck. The forensics report had been the sign he'd prayed for, a reward for his show of faith. 

But that still didn't mean he had the faintest idea where JD was; just where he wasn't. He'd spent hours poring over every note, every letter, and every scrap of information JD had left them to work with. Over the course of a few days, they had spoken to every person Katherine Dunne had given as much as a second thought to. And not a single one of them had provided anything useful beyond confirming that JD had in fact visited. 

Most hadn't thought of the young mother and her son in years. Buck couldn't help but feel irrational anger toward people who'd been too busy living their lives to look out for the pair when they sorely needed it. 

He slammed the album shut in frustration. A photograph fluttered to the ground. Buck stretched down awkwardly to retrieve it.

It was an old-fashioned novelty portrait; a sepia-toned picture in a battered brown cardboard frame. Buck estimated JD's age in the picture at four or five. He peered at the camera with the deliberate seriousness of a child. Unruly hair escaped from beneath the white, oversized cowboy hat perched on his head. The duster he wore, with a shiny silver star pinned to the lapel, was several sizes too large for JD. He cradled a replica Winchester in his arms. 

Buck smiled fondly. It was JD through and through. Buck wondered that he'd never seen this picture before. His grin widened as he realized JD was smart enough to anticipate the ribbing it would invite. 

Buck turned his attention to the woman seated behind his young friend. There was no doubt she was his mother. Buck would know who she was even if he had never seen a picture of the sweet-faced young woman. It was obvious where JD got his open nature and his love for life. Her dark eyes were laughing, her hand resting lightly on her son's young shoulder. The simple, old-fashioned dress suited her, Buck decided absently. 

The file on Zellar perched on the corner of the table. With curiosity that bordered on morbid, Buck reached across and flipped it open. The surveillance photograph of Zellar in the park lay on top. Buck picked the picture up and placed it next to the picture of JD and his mother, and completed the family portrait. 

A hollow ache burned Buck's throat as he studied the small family. He knew better than most what it would mean to JD to see this. Buck only hoped he would get the chance to show him.

There was a quiet knock at the suite door that separated the room he shared with Chris from the one Vin and Ezra shared.

"It's open," he called, quickly putting the picture of Zellar back where it belonged. He didn't need to be caught woolgathering by the others.

"Got someone you should meet, Bucklin," Vin said softly.

Buck looked up and his world narrowed. He knew the man standing behind Vin; had memorized every scant fact about him. Had just this minute placed his photograph next to JD's, creating a family portrait that never existed. Buck knew him. And *he* knew where JD was.

Buck shouldered Vin aside with a body-check that sent the slight agent tumbling across the nearest bed. 

The first punch snapped Ioseph's head to the side. He took the blow like a professional; head rocking back to absorb the momentum rather than stop it. But Buck was no amateur either. The real force was in his second punch -- which caught Ioseph in the gut and doubled him, breathless.

With his left forearm against Ioseph's throat, Buck pinned him to the door frame. "Where is he?" he growled, oblivious to the jabs and kicks that punctuated the smaller man's defensive struggles. "Where is he?" He punctuated the question with a second massive punch to Ioseph's midsection. The growl grew into a roar.

Strong arms wrapped around Buck from behind, pulled him clear. Buck thrashed, flailing with an elbow. Josiah swore in annoyed pain.

A commanding voice froze the combatants. "What the hell is going on?" Chris stood dripping in the bathroom doorway. He clenched a towel around his waist with one hand and held his gun in the other. Visually he checked off each participant in the melee, eyes widening slightly when he saw Ioseph. "Right. Don't kill each other," he ordered and retreated to the bathroom and his interrupted shower.

As soon as the door closed, Buck jerked free from Josiah's grasp. He glowered at Ioseph. "Where's JD?" he asked again, the glittering promise of violence in his eyes.

Ioseph panted slightly, the skin at his throat already showing the first colors of a spectacular bruise. "He's safe."

"That's not what I asked," Buck snarled. 

Josiah dropped his hand heavily on Buck's shoulder and squeezed, silently conveying the message that he wouldn't hesitate to manhandle Buck again. Buck rolled his shoulder back, shaking free the restraining hand. 

He stalked forward, drawing himself square to loom over Ioseph. "Where is JD?" 

Ioseph shook his head, refusing to give any ground. "I'm many things, but I'm no traitor. I give you my word; JD is as safe as I can make him."

"No traitor?" Buck spat, "You're a damned spy."

"We're getting off topic here," Josiah said firmly. "Brother Buck, why don't you and I take a walk."

"Back off, Preacher," Buck said flatly.

"This had best be good, Mr. Tanner," Ezra called as he and Nathan entered the other hotel room. He continued as he walked into the adjoined suite, "Mr. Jackson and I abandoned a rather promising lead to answer your summons." He took in Ioseph's presence and said mildly, "Oh. I see."

"Guess your lead was better than ours," Nathan added. He glanced around the hotel room hopefully, "So where's JD?"

"We were just getting to that," Buck said, still bristling.

"I told you, he's safe -- for now, but there's not much time." Ioseph sighed. "I have a plan, of sorts. But it requires..." he groped for the proper word, "leverage." He held up Pedersen's flash drive between two fingers. "Is there somewhere I could take a look at this?"

"Ezra, help him," Chris ordered from the bathroom doorway. He'd pulled on clothes, though his tousled hair was still dripping down his collar. "Buck, Josiah, go get some air." 

Buck opened his mouth to argue and got a good look at the muscle in Chris’s jaw jumping -- just daring him to commit suicide by Chris. "Come on, 'siah, we're taking that walk after all," he said, disgusted. He shot Chris a glare on his way out that the blond returned impassively.

When they were gone, Chris turned his attention to Vin. "Something wrong with your phone?" he asked pointedly.

Vin shrugged. "Not sure who all is listenin'. Figured it was best no one know we were bringing company."

The answer didn't make Chris any happier about the surprise, but he could see the logic in it. He stared at Ioseph who stood in the doorway between the two rooms. "Really think he's here to help?" his voiced lowered for Vin alone. 

"I don't know," Vin answered after a moment consideration. "Seems t' be, but I don't reckon he'd be much of a spy if he couldn't spin a convincin' yarn. If he double crosses us," Vin offered with a sly grin, "you could always hand him over to Buck."

"I'll keep it in mind," Chris said, mirroring the smirk. He sobered and said, "Watch him?" It wasn't an order; it didn't have to be.

Ioseph's skin prickled as Scruffy and his boss watched him without seeming to watch him. It was unnerving, akin to being tracked by large predators. 

He took a seat at the round table, drumming his fingers absently. There were files and photo albums stacked haphazardly. The name Zhellar was typed neatly on the tab of one manila folder stamped 'confidential.'

It made his fingers itch to be so close to an official file about himself. He resisted the urge to look when Vin took the chair across from him. Instead he picked up one of the albums.

And there she was, just as he remembered her.

Katie.

His Ketya.

She seemed serene in the photograph, a contented grin lit up her face. Her cheek pressed against the dark hair of the small boy in her lap. Ioseph let his fingers trace the outline of her face; caress the cascade of dark hair. If he closed his eyes, Ioseph could still conjure the scent of lilac that lingered in the air around her.

He ached.

"Did you know about--?" Vin asked quietly, startling Ioseph from his reverie.

Ioseph nodded, absently turning the pages. Most of the pictures were of JD; birthdays and Christmases, school plays, and hockey games. Occasionally there was a shot of the two of them, or rarely one of Katie by herself. Captured vignettes of the life he'd missed. 

"I had a month to get used to the idea of being a father," Ioseph told Vin. "And then another month to realize what a colossal mistake that would be."

"So you ran out on them," Nathan accused from the doorway.

Ioseph flinched; he hadn't heard the other man's approach. He was going soft. "I didn't want to. If anyone had ever found out about them, they would have both been in danger. Neither of our governments was above using them against me."

Nathan harrumphed, unimpressed with any excuses Ioseph offered. "We're ready in here," he said with a chill.

Ioseph abandoned the photo albums, happy for something productive to focus on. 

The flash drive contained a glut of information encrypted in Pedersen's signature cipher. It took Ioseph longer than it should have to break the key, though the three ATF agents watching his every move suspiciously didn't aid his efforts any. The files finally opened and he scanned them quickly.

There were expense reports for operations that to Ioseph's knowledge had never been carried out; details of bribes where the amount far exceeded the payee's usefulness; and dozens of other transactions similarly padded. There were pages and pages of the examples, stretching back fifteen years. A brazen pattern of embezzlement emerged; Ioseph stopped his mental tabulation when the sum soared past five million. 

"This is it," he said, smiling broadly.

"What is it?" Ezra asked, trying to decipher the Russian.

"Leverage," Ioseph answered.


	16. Friday - Boston, Safehouse

Late afternoon shadows crept along the windowsill in Avel's office, their steady lengthening an apt measurement of his own rising anxiety. Trouble was stirring; he could taste it in the air.

Ioseph had not returned since breakfast that morning and Avel had no doubt his friend was off planning something drastic to save Dunne. It was the same alarmingly deep romantic streak that had compelled Ioseph to spare the boy's mother in the first place. On the strength of their friendship, Ioseph had convinced Avel to participate in his subterfuge once. It would not happen again.

Orders had already been handed down to dispose of Dunne. Avel's private affairs could scarcely withstand the scrutiny the boy had already brought down on them. If he were to somehow survive, Avel knew that his own interests -- possibly his life -- would be imperiled. He also knew that Ioseph had no intention of letting Avel execute his son. It would pain him deeply to kill Ioseph.

The phone on his desk rang twice and disconnected. The caller dialed back, letting it ring three times before hanging up. The third time it began ringing, Avel answered with a noncommittal, "Hello."

Thomas Pedersen's familiar voice answered with his codename, a mere formality. Avel had known the elderly handler since he was first sent to this post. Still, the old man was a stickler for rules and couldn't conceive that anyone else might be less inclined. It was a blind spot that had been breathlessly easy to manipulate, Avel's entire skimming process relied on it.

"Hello, Teacher," Avel greeted him formally. "How may I serve?"

"I spoke with our mutual friend today," Pedersen said. "He seemed unwell."

"He is worried for the health of his son," Avel answered, skin prickling. Ioseph was reaching out to anyone who might help him, forcing a very dangerous hand. "The boy has been unwell. I believe our friend is looking for someone who can help him."

"That is what he told me," Pedersen said. "But he believed he had found someone who could help; someone from the Caymans who could persuade the doctors to tend the boy."

Avel's stomach lurched. "I did not know our friend had acquaintances in the Caymans," he tried to keep his voice bland. Bad enough Ioseph had found the accounts; if word spread any further everything Avel had worked for would be undone. 

"Perhaps I misheard," Pedersen answered, "He believed you would know this acquaintance. You should speak to our friend."

"Thank you, Teacher. I will." Avel's hand was shaking when he hung up the phone. He stood, flinging his chair away from the desk. It rolled across the office to crash against the bookshelf, knocking over picture frames on impact.

Avel snatched the slender letter opener from his blotter and dropped to his knees. He ran his hands slowly down the smooth leg of his desk, sensitive fingers straining for the slightest burr. When he found the small groove, he slid the tip of the letter opener beneath it and twisted. A thin sliver came free, revealing a small crevice in the polished wood. Inside was a slip of rice paper so thin it was almost nonexistent. 

He set the paper on his keyboard and repeated the operation on his bookshelf. 

With both halves of the paper recovered, Avel logged onto his computer and pulled up his bank account in the Caymans. When the balance pulled up, he nearly swallowed his tongue. 

Avel swore. He shook his head at the computer, as if denying what he saw would restore the balance. He looked up the history. Two hours ago, someone had emptied his account of every last penny. 

He checked the account twice more with the same results. 

Ioseph -- his friend -- had stolen from him. Enraged, Avel shoved the monitor from his desk. It landed with a satisfying crunch. For good measure, he swept the rest of his desk clean too. 

So that was Ioseph's plan, trade Dunne's life for Avel's money. Unfortunate for him, Pedersen had tipped Avel to his plan. Avel would turn the game on Ioseph. Pieces clicked into place and Avel made a snap decision.

"Kuzma," he bellowed. "Kuzma!"

The hulking agent appeared seconds later. He gave no indication of noticing the mess Avel's temper-tantrum had created.

"Kuzma," he snapped, "go to the docks and prepare the Star. We're leaving."


	17. Friday - Atlantic Ocean, Nor'n Star

"It's cold out there, Ioseph," Avel purred into the phone. "Come in, get out of the wind."

"I want to talk to JD," Ioseph's voice was tinny as it came across the small speaker, but his anger transmitted clearly through the distortion.

If Avel was surprised at the venom coming from his normally controlled friend, he didn't show it. He raked an appraising look over JD. The young man squirmed angrily in the handcuffs that bound his hands over head. "He's a little tied up at the moment," Avel said dryly. "But here -- so you know he's still with us --" He held the phone toward JD and nodded to Kuzma.

The big man coiled and drove his fist into JD's unprotected abdomen. Air was forced from suddenly compacted lungs in an explosive rush. JD drew his knees up defensively. The steel handcuffs bit deeply into his wrists. The muscles in his arms and shoulders burned. Slowly he forced himself to uncurl, planting his feet back on the floor.

Kuzma smirked at JD and took a half step back to await additional direction from Avel. It was all the opportunity JD needed. He gripped the pipe overhead in both hands and swung as hard as he could; lashing out with both feet.

They connected solidly, and JD heard the wet pop of cartilage snapping. In the back of his mind, JD knew it was stupid, petty, and only going to cause him more pain. In the front of his mind, however, he'd already decided to go down swinging.

The dark-haired man staggered back, clutching at his shattered nose. Roaring with incoherent rage, he lunged forward. Meaty fingers dug into JD's throat.

JD tried to pull away, but couldn't escape the tightening grip. The other man's face twisted into a horrific, blood-smeared smile as he slowly began to squeeze. Blood still flowed freely from his ruined nose, spattering them both. Black molasses was seeping into the corners of JD's vision, when a distant roar filled the cabin.

Blue, hate-filled eyes widened and then glazed. Murderous fingers slackened, trailing down JD's chest as Kuzma collapsed to the floor. JD slumped forward, pulling in one sobbing breath of air after the next. In the background he could hear Ioseph, still on the speakerphone, angrily demanding an explanation.

Avel set aside the snub-nosed pistol and stalked over to JD. He buried one hand roughly in JD's dark hair, forcing his head back. Thrusting the phone toward JD he hissed, "Talk to him. Tell him you just cost me a good man, and I'll be taking it out of you."

Still dazed, JD struggled to wrap his mind around the words.

The pause infuriated Avel who read it as further resistance on JD's part. Gripping the receiver, he backhanded JD with the phone. "Tell him," he ordered.

"Go to hell," JD answered. Then in a moment of self-preserving defiance, he sagged insensate against his restraints.

Avel looked from the limp figure hanging before him, to the body on the floor. "One kid damn it. How the hell can one kid cause so much trouble?" The phone in his hand was forgotten for a moment as he studied the boy. He could barely be old enough to shave, and yet had almost single-handedly undone everything Avel had painstakingly built over the past fifteen years.

Raising the phone slowly to his ear, he informed his now silent audience, "Portland Harbor, Pier 42. Be there by seven, or I take him apart piece by piece. And believe me, it will be my pleasure." He cut the connection and exited the small cabin.


	18. Friday - Atlantic Ocean, Nor'n Star

The hatch had barely closed behind Avel before JD went to work. Standing on tiptoes, he grasped the pipe in both hands and began twisting. The galvanized metal bit into his palms, unyielding at first. He kept at it, swearing and straining. He hadn't imagined the slight rotation when he'd struck out at Kuzma earlier. 

His efforts were eventually rewarded when the joint released with an abruptness that dumped JD into a heap on the floor. The pipe fell after, thumping him solidly behind the ear and sending the world spinning again. The deck beneath his cheek rumbled as the diesel engine chugged away, pushing the ship hard against the waves. The pitch of the deck was an arrhythmic counter to the throbbing in JD's head. 

Tentatively, JD opened his eyes.

Kuzma stared sightlessly back, a stunned expression on his still cooling features.

JD yelped in surprise. Limbs akimbo, he scrambled back, as far away from the corpse as the confined space would allow him. Comforting hull at his back, he sagged. His breath came in short, angry pants; throat still raw from Kuzma's murderous assault. 

The hatch swung open with a groan. Genya stood framed in the entry, emotion flickering across his face. Confusion. Horror. Grief. Rage. He crossed the room without being aware of it. Swaying slightly, Genya stood over his cousin's corpse. He buckled, dropping heavily to his knees. 

He reached out, disbelieving the blood soaking Kuzma's broad back. "Kuzya?" his voice quivered over the pet name. "Kuzya?" He rolled Kuzma toward him, flinching as his cousin flopped limply on the floor.

Cautiously, JD reached for the short length of pipe he'd been chained to. 

The movement snapped Genya from his trance. His eyes alit on JD. Genya's face darkened, contorting with rage. "You did this?" he demanded. "You?" His mouth chewed over words he couldn't spit out. 

JD snatched up the pipe in both hands, holding it like a baseball bat to accommodate the handcuffs that still hobbled his wrists.

Genya launched himself across the room faster than JD could swing the cudgel. He collided with JD, pinning the pipe uselessly between them. Roaring oaths in Russian that JD couldn't follow; his fists twisted in JD's shirtfront and jerked the smaller man to his feet in one violent motion.

JD slammed hard against the wall, his head buzzed from the impact. "I didn't. I swear I didn't."

Genya was beyond listening. He screamed at JD, swearing in rapid fire Russian. He shook the smaller man like a rag doll. Questions JD couldn't understand, let alone answer grew more violently demanding.

"I didn't. I didn't," JD gasped out between assaults.

Strong fingers twisted hard in JD's hair; jerking his head back. Genya flung him roughly through the hatch. JD tripped and tumbled out onto the deck. The pipe clattered from his fingertips, bouncing out of reach. Genya pounced. He yanked JD upright and shoved JD forward into the ships rail. 

Genya drew his gun, an ugly little snub-nose that was all business. "My cousin," he spat, accent thick with anger. "You killed him." 

Recognizing that nothing he said would be helpful, JD flung himself forward. His shoulder slammed Genya's stomach. Momentum sent them both crashing against the deckhouse. The gun went spinning across the deck.

Genya didn't even try for it. He freed a wicked knife from his boot. The black blade seemed to swallow the moonlight. He circled JD slowly, knife held low -- confidant. 

JD coiled and braced himself. He tracked Genya's movements warily. The opening was no more than a flicker. Genya began speaking again, low and deadly. He made a gesture with his knife hand, swinging the point away for a second.

Pouring every hope he had of seeing Buck and the others again into physical energy, JD lunged forward. His hands caught the arm holding the knife, forcing it away from his body. He slid his hands down Genya's arm and slammed his left elbow hard into the Russian's throat.

Genya gagged, wheezing. A flailing fist cuffed JD behind the ear, staggering him for a moment. The pair grappled, collided with the deck rail. They traded tight, close body shots. JD lashed out with knees and elbows, compensating for his bound wrists with relentless unpredictability. He wouldn't get any points for style, but it did seem to even the odds a little.

JD could feel his energy waning, and the urgency of that thought spurred him on. The other man's back was at the rail now, and JD dug his shoulder into his chest. He ignored the flare of pain as the knife scored his ribs. Pushing off with his legs as hard as he could, JD toppled the other man over the side.

JD dropped heavily to the deck, gasping for air. The noise of the struggle was sure to bring someone, but he couldn't force himself to get up. Bile rose in his throat and he pressed his forehead to the cold metal of the deck, wishing desperately that the world would stop moving for a moment while he caught his breath. 

With an effort that almost left him sobbing, JD unsteadily regained his feet. He cast about for Genya's gun, needing to feel the comforting weight in his hand. The gun was lost to shadows or water, so he scooped up the pipe instead. He had to get off the ship – a life raft; he had to find a life raft. And the only way he would find one was if he started walking; one pain-flared step at a time. 

The sticky warmth at his side worried him, though with his hands still in cuffs he couldn't do much more than clench his arm to his side. He could remember the yearly First-Aid refresher courses Nathan taught at the office. Certain phrases throughout always seemed directed toward him. "Now," he mimicked Nathan softly to himself, "apply direct pressure to stop bleeding." Buck's eyes invariably turned to the seat next to him. "Well if someone would learn how to duck, I wouldn't need this so much." 

"Sorry, Buck," JD mumbled, trying keep his mind anywhere but on the pain he was in. "Screwed it up again. Next time... promise I'll duck." 

Movement at the railing up ahead pulled him from the imaginary conversation. He ducked into shadows as a man pulled himself on to the deck. Too slender to be Genya, but JD didn't really care who he was anyway. He'd come from over the side. That meant he had a boat. 

JD waited as patiently as he could, but the man showed no intention of moving on. Instead he turned and began hauling something up behind him. Time was running out.   
As soon as he or Genya was missed, the alert would be sounded. And JD really didn't want to take his chances on eluding any sort of search effort for long.

With a sigh, he readied the pipe with both hands and stealthily stalked toward another fight he didn't want. He hated to do it like this. Striking the man down from behind was hardly the honorable thing to do, but JD needed that boat.

The crouched man was oblivious to his approach, his attention fixed on the duffle bag he had hauled up behind him.

Putting as much strength as he could into one aching overhead swing, JD leapt forward.

The club sliced harmlessly through the air where the other man had been less than a second prior. JD's arms were torqued painfully as his would-be-victim used JD's own momentum as a weapon.

JD hit the deck hard. Bright points of pain exploded behind his eyes, and he gasped frantically, trying to refill his stunned lungs. There wasn't enough time to recover before the next assault.

JD found himself staring across the blade of a blackened boot-knife into the equally startled eyes of Ioseph.

"JD? What are you doing?" Ioseph demanded quietly as he helped JD to his feet.

"Escaping." JD answered wryly. "You?"

"Rescuing," Ioseph shot back with a grin that carried a note of pride.

"Great. Consider me rescued. Now let's go. Unless I have a brother or sister somewhere on board that might need a hand."

"Nope, just you. Go on ahead. There's something I need to take care of." Ioseph gave him a gentle shove toward the rope ladder.

JD shook his head. "Oh no you don't. I'm not going anywhere without you."

Ioseph searched JD's eyes for a moment. Seeing that his son was not going to listen to reason, he sighed. "Fine. Have it your way," he said, turning back to the duffle bag.

Movement on the ladder caught JD's eye and he moved to investigate, clutching the pipe tightly. A black stocking-capped head crested the edge. Even though the face was smudged against reflecting light, JD instantly recognized Chris. He couldn't stop the broad smile despite his split lip.

"Chris." He started forward to help the other man up, when a sharp sting burned at his throat. He clamped his hand over the offended area, and turned accusing eyes toward Ioseph. "What was that?" he asked, glaring at the hypodermic needle in Ioseph's hand.

"Something to make sure you do what you're told," Ioseph said, ignoring the hurt look in JD's eyes. He nodded to Larabee, who climbed back down the ladder and prepared to catch JD.

"You can't do thsh," JD's words slurred as the sedative kicked in. 

"Sorry, son, but this isn't your fight." Ioseph wrapped his arms under JD's and pulled him to the rail.

"Please don’t," JD whispered as he was gently lowered into his friend's waiting arms. The rushing wake was making JD's head spin. He closed his eyes for a moment trying to regroup, only to find that he couldn't reopen them. 

"Don’t," he whispered again, then gave into the waiting oblivion.

+++++

"He's not gonna understand," Chris said as he handed the last of the supplies up to Ioseph.

"He doesn't have to understand it; he doesn't even have to like it. But this is the way it's going to be." Ioseph said, ignoring the slight burr of emotion in his throat. "You need to go. That'll only keep him out for a few minutes and I want him well away from this boat before he wakes up."

Chris ignored the implied order. "You don't have to do this."

Ioseph didn't answer. Instead he knelt and quickly freed the ropes holding the raft to the Nor'n Star. The zodiac was caught by the wake and pulled quickly away; just as he intended it to. The matte black of the boat easily faded into the inky night.

Satisfied that Larabee had gotten his son safely away, Ioseph set to work.


	19. Friday - Atlantic Ocean, Nor'n Star

The Nor'n Star was eerily quiet when Ioseph emerged from the forward cabin, a heavy duffle bag slung across his back. The other three bags he’d brought on board were stashed strategically below deck. He tried to ignore the ache of betrayal that made his heart weigh more than the bag, more than the ship.

He headed forward to the stern, his motions stealthy out of habit rather than necessity. Discovery didn't matter now that his son was safe. 

His son.

Odd how that thought still left him with a surge of pride. JD was a fine son and a good man. With Katie's gentle nature and strength of character. He rubbed at his bruised jaw, not to mention her habit of acquiring champions.

Ioseph leaned against the rail, peering into the darkness. Lights from the mainland danced on the horizon. Strain as he might, he couldn't find the small zodiac in the indigo sea. The waves and the night had swallowed his son and left nothing for Ioseph but memories of the girl he'd once loved and the child he barely knew. He hurt in a way he hadn't expected -- hadn't known he was capable of. His son lived; but that life was not for Ioseph.

Ioseph caressed the rail, conjuring memories of happier visits. Precious extra days stolen after debriefings to spend down time with the one constant presence in his life; Ioseph treasured those times. Not only was Avel the closest thing Ioseph had to a friend, but it was also a rare opportunity to *be* Ioseph Simovitz. Not Zellar, or Richland, or Michaels, or any of the other identities he'd worn over the years. Just Ioseph.

Invariably, when Ioseph managed to finagle a few extra days, he and Avel would spend time on the Nor'n Star. She wasn't much to look at, but the yacht was Avel's pride and joy. When he realized Avel was on the move, Ioseph hadn't needed the small transmitter he'd hidden in JD's shoe to figure out they would come here. This was Avel's sanctuary and he wouldn't abandon it.

Ioseph crept up on the helm like a whisper already faded; heart hammering with dread at his own intentions. The wheelhouse stood empty, its heavy door flung open. Ioseph felt his pulse quicken. Had Avel guessed what he was about? Had he and the crew abandoned the ship? Ioseph ignored the uneasy mixture of relief and annoyance that possibility stirred within him. 

Whoever had manned the wheel hadn't been gone long. He exited the cabin, intent on carrying out his plan. 

A soft scuff drew his attention to the cabin wall before him. One of the shadows on the wall stirred and bled into a third dimension. Avel emerged, his blonde hair gray under the blue-white glow of the running lamp. The shadows from the riggings cut deep lines across his face, aging him.

"So," Ioseph said by way of greeting.

"So," Avel echoed soft and deadly. The gun in his hand stretched the distance impossibly between them.

There was a pause. Neither man knew exactly what to say to the other. Nearly three decades of history gone in a single night.

Ioseph broke the silence first. "He's my son, Avel." It was an explanation and apology in one.

Avel spit. "He's no more a son to you than you are a father to him. You've known him less than a week. That doesn't make family. You're chasing dreams of a girl who didn't even bother telling your own son about you." 

"I told her not to."

"She's dead, Ioseph." 

"He's not," Ioseph countered, his hand tightening around the cell phone on his belt. "And I mean him to stay that way."

"Return my money and I'll guarantee it," Avel said. 

"The money you stole?" Ioseph asked disdainfully. "I don't have it."

"Don't lie to me," Avel warned. "It's gone and I want it back."

"I'm not lying." Ioseph unclipped the cell phone, hiding it in his palm. "Pedersen only gave me the information this afternoon. I haven't had time to take anything."

"The professor... but he --" Avel trailed off, suddenly understanding. "That sly old bastard," a note of admiration crept into his voice. "This has been his game from the start. He flagged the boy; and he told me you'd taken the money." Avel barked a laugh. "He even planned this. Hah. I'll settle with him."

Ioseph shook his head sadly. "No. You won't." He flipped the phone open, finger caressing the send key. "I'm sorry, Avel. I really am. There've been times when the only way I knew who I was, was because you reminded me." Years of training didn't keep the sorrow from his voice. "Times when I got in so deep, I lost part of myself. But you always made sure I got all of the pieces put back in the right place. I've spent most of my life calling you ...friend...brother. And now..."

His thumb depressed the button. 

"Who are you calling?" Avel demanded.

"An old friend," Ioseph answered, strangely calm for all the adrenaline coursing through him. He clutched the strap of the duffle across his back and waited.

Avel flinched when his own cell phone rang, unnaturally loud in the empty night. A heartbeat later the world was drowned in flames.


	20. Friday - Atlantic Ocean

The indigo ocean yawned beneath them, a vast purple maw poised to devour the tiny boat. Chris ignored the prickling sensation that was strangely akin to vertigo and concentrated on the flickers of light he could see whenever a swell lifted the raft. Those brief glimpses of safety were studded along the horizon like brilliant stars pinning the sea and sky together.

They were far enough from the ship to risk double-checking their course on the small handheld GPS. The soft green glow of the LCD enveloped the raft. Chris turned the monitor so the faint light fell over his precious cargo. 

JD was sprawled in the bottom of the boat, head lolling against Chris’s backpack. Silver handcuffs still glittered around each wrist, though the bolt cutters Ioseph had thoughtfully packed had made quick work of the chain that linked them. After the brief fight he'd offered when they launched, JD hadn't so much as twitched. He was so limp that Chris had to keep reminding himself that the sedative would wear off eventually. Disturbed, Chris pocketed the small screen and let darkness descend once more.

They had come close this time -- damned close. He tightened his grip on the throttle, inadvertently bouncing them hard against the next wave. The zodiac shuddered twice; the bow dug in and sent frigid water sluicing over the round hull.

Chris released the throttle and moved carefully to the forward half of the raft; the engine dropped into a low, purring idle. Water cold enough to make his bones ache soaked through his pants as he knelt at JD's side. He wasn't concerned about the raft sinking, they could be completely swamped and the inflated collar would keep them afloat. The temperature of the water was another matter altogether. 

He worked his arm under JD, swearing as the water soaked through his sleeve. JD was already shivering violently, his breath huffing out in short chattering breaths. Chris wrapped his arms around the kid's chest and hauled him into a sitting position. 

"... it auff," JD mumbled, head flopping back as he made a feeble attempt to fight. One hand managed to catch Chris’s shoulder more by luck than design.

"Sorry, kid," Chris said, ignoring the uncoordinated struggle. "Need to get you sat up." He braced his foot against one gunwale, dug his shoulder into JD's chest and used brute force to manhandle the limp body into the corner formed by the cross brace and side wall. 

JD let out a strangled cry, trying to suck in his breath and scream at the same time. His eyes snapped open, but found nothing in the dark. One clenched fist slammed against the rubberized wall of the raft. His breaths came in ragged, pain-choked gasps.

The sudden outburst startled Chris and he released his hold like JD had burst into flames. JD fell back against the wall with a soft thud and another rough cry. Chris swore under his breath, he hadn't realized the kid was injured. 

The searing pain in JD's side faded back into the steadily throbbing background of pain; pushed from the forefront by a bitter cold that simply drowned out any other aches. He tried to push himself upright, only to find his limbs had somehow disconnected from his brain. The world pitched violently, sending his stomach flip-flopping around his abdomen. JD grimaced, trying to force the world back within the parameters he understood.

A gentle hand cradled the back of his head, steadying him. "Easy," Chris’s voice was an anchor in the darkness. "You're gonna be groggy for a while, but it'll wear off."

"Chrs? 'En'd you geh heh?" JD slurred; the words indecipherable to even his own ears.

"Here, drink." A bottle of water was pressed into JD's palm; Chris carefully curled his fingers around the smooth plastic. The world heaved again, this time JD was certain the rolling wasn't inside his head. 

"Where'rrr," he croaked, pleased that the word bore some relationship to English; before he finished the question, night turned into day. A column of flame encased in oily black clouds shot skyward, and then collapsed back in on itself.

The noise, despite their distance from the explosion, felt like a physical blow. Echoes of light danced in the void left by the blast. Faintly he could hear the patter of twisted debris falling back into the ocean.

The shattered remains of the ship sat low in the water; eager waves crawled over the twisted metal corpse, dragging it slowly below. Diesel fuel hemorrhaged, pouring the vessel's heart-blood out onto the waves. Flames danced along the tendrils of fuel, illuminating the wreckage.

"You okay?" Chris asked, rising shakily from the floor of the raft. The guttering fire painted him in red and shadows.

"Think so," JD answered, and to his surprise, discovered it to be true. Spiking adrenaline cleared the fuzziness from his head. His eyes swept the raft and then cut to the wreck. "Where is he?" he demanded, voice gaining strength around the terrible question.

Chris busied himself with looking anywhere but at JD. "Kid --" he faltered, 

JD did the math. Unthinking, he surged awkwardly to his feet. "We have to go back!" He lost his footing on the wet canvas deck and stumbled backward. Acting purely on instinct, Chris lashed out with one hand and caught JD's forearm in an iron grasp. He yarded the kid back into the boat and sat him forcibly down.

"No, we don't," he said firmly, though not unkindly. "There's nothing we can do."

JD struggled against him, though his efforts were uncoordinated. "He could be hurt! He could be -- " 

The panic in JD's voice made Chris’s chest ache; he knew all too well the feeling of helplessness. He put his hands on JD's shoulders and leaned forward, using his weight to pin the younger man against the raft. "We can't."

Under his hands, JD quaked violently, but his voice was steady enough to be heard above water and the idling motor. "Why'd he do it?" It wasn't the accusation Chris had been dreading -- JD wasn't the only one shivering now. 

Chris slid his hands to cup the back of JD's neck. "He wanted you safe. This way, nobody can use you to get to him."

JD shrugged away from the comforting touch, turning his eyes back to the shattered remains of the N'orn Star. His face cracked, and JD was grateful for the darkness that hid the stinging tears.

Chris, sensing the need for privacy, turned his attention back to the motor and reaching the rendezvous point. Bright lights broke away from the shoreline cutting hurried paths toward the wreckage; rescue vessels from the harbor. Chris altered his course to avoid them.

Stony silence stretched between them for several long minutes, the space filled by the buzz of the motor. Finally JD broke it with a neutral question. "H-how'd you find me?" 

"Richland knew," Chris said. "He tagged your shoe, but he knew we were heading for the harbor as soon as they started to move." Chris checked their coordinates against the GPS, they were close. "We almost caught up to you at the docks." That had been an awful moment, arriving just in time to see the yacht entering open water. 

Thankfully, it hadn't taken long to assemble Ioseph's plan. As soon as he had shared his hunch, Chris and Buck had been on the phone trading in every favor still outstanding from their Navy days, and incurring more than a few new ones. The ATF agent in Chris had been only slightly terrified at how quickly they'd assembled enough explosives to level a building, or shatter a boat.

Chris idled the motor and got out a handheld search light. He frowned at the shoreline, looking for the signal. They were well away from the bustling commercial docks, but there was still enough activity and lights to make the pattern he was looking for - one red, two blue - difficult to pick out. "I'd have done the same," he said softly.

JD turned to look at him, heard the unspoken for Adam, and turned away again, eyes prickling with fresh understanding.

A shrill whistle split the air - Nathan's sure-fire method of hailing a cab - and there, along a small private pier, was the signal. Chris flashed the spotlight in the appropriate response and guided them in to dock. As they drew nearer, five familiar silhouettes separated from the shadows and moved forward as one to meet them.


	21. Friday - Boston, Docks

Buck could see JD's hands trembling on the ladder frame; and even in the low light, could tell that his normally expressive eyes were fixed in a thousand yard stare. He held out a hand. "JD."

Hearing his name seemed to draw JD back to himself. He blinked rapidly, surprised to find himself clinging to the side of a pier. JD took the offered hand and let himself be pulled up onto solid ground and into an enveloping hug. "Buck," he exhaled, quaking with relief, exhaustion, and cold; but mainly with the need to go somewhere quiet and fall apart for a while.

Buck understood. He turned his arms into sheltering walls, letting JD retreat into the embrace for as long as it took.

Nathan hovered nearby, rescue blanket and thermos at the ready. His hands, never any good at being idle in the best of times, itched with the need to reach out and catalogue hurts, to mend what he could. Only Buck's silent but firm warning to back off kept him at bay. There was healing other than physical to be done, Nathan understood that. But it didn't keep his fingers from twitching.

JD's face was buried against Buck's neck, and he could feel each long shuddering breath against his skin. Buck held on and absorbed it all. Over JD's dark head, he watched his oldest friend ascend the ladder. Something in Buck's chest unclenched. Even knowing the plan, it had been a sickening feeling when the night horizon had blossomed with orange fire. His gaze flicked from Chris to the ladder and back again. Chris shook his head no.

Buck closed his eyes and ached for his young friend.

JD's broken sobs had given way to violent shivering; Buck had been waiting for that transition. At his elbow, Nathan made an urgent sound, practically vibrated with impatience. Buck nodded at him and eased his hold on JD.

Despite his frustrated urgency, Nathan’s hands were tender as he tugged JD away from Buck’s embrace. “Hey, JD,” his voice was gentle even as he began to evaluate the visible damage. He settled the silver blanket around JD’s shoulders, using the motion to run his hands along JD’s arms looking for damage. 

Nathan murmured low, rumbling words that buffeted JD without any real meaning to them. JD closed his eyes and let the warm concern cocoon him. 

He was safe.

He was safe and he was alive. He could fall to pieces just a little and know that his brothers would put him back together again. JD had come to Boston searching for family; he’d had one all along.

JD thought about Ioseph. For a few weird, tense days, JD’d had a father; or at least a man who had loved his mother once. He didn’t know how to process everything that had happened just yet – maybe he never would. He’d had a father and lost him. But by God, he still had brothers.

Chris and Vin finished stowing the zodiac. One of Chris’s contacts would be by later to haul the miscellaneous equipment away. In an hour, there’d be no trace of them left. JD wished that everything else could be handled so neatly. His disappearance was bound to have raised questions, his reappearance doubly so. JD feared it would be a long while before he was allowed to go home.

A worrisome thought struck JD. Even once he was allowed to go home; his job relied on being trusted with security clearance. As the son of a foreign operative – spy was a word that belonged in pulp novels – would he even be an ATF agent anymore. JD didn’t know what kind of life he’d have if he couldn’t go back to working with these men who came so far for him.

The tremors started again. Buck, attentiveness fine-tuned as ever, stepped back in and folded JD up into his embrace. JD wasn’t proud of the way he shook and hid against Buck’s shoulder. He ached for everything to be over. He wanted to wake up in his own bed and go to the job that he loved and was good at. He wanted a lot of things that weren’t going to happen right now.

He put all of those thoughts in a box for later; when just the act of standing upright didn’t demand every ounce of concentration JD possessed.

JD let himself be guided into the back seat of an SUV, grateful to surrender any decisions to the others. He was bandaged and fussed over and eventually buckled in. Ezra climbed into the middle seat, sharp eyes watching JD carefully. Vin crowded in next to Ezra. 

JD leaned his head back and let Boston slide past his window unseen. From the corner of JD’s eye, he watched as Ezra’s graceful hand reached for his and then curled away, uncertain. Without turning from the window, JD wrapped his hand over Ezra’s and squeezed. A moment later, Vin’s warm hand settled on top of the pile and the tightness in JD’s heart eased another click.

Buck drove them to a clinic that Chris’s contact supplied. Despite the absurdly early hour, a doctor and nurse greeted them warmly at the back door. JD drifted as the doctor examined him under Nathan’s careful supervision. They stitched up his side and frowned at his temperature; probed at his bruises and gently manipulated the bones in his wrists. It swirled past JD without touching him.

Eventually he was patched to Nathan’s satisfaction. If there were directions, they were delivered to Buck and Nathan. All JD cared about was that he would spend the night in a hotel room surrounded by his family, instead of alone in a sterile hospital room. He would be safe and protected, watched over as he slept.

Chris and Josiah were already ensconced in the suite when they arrived at the hotel. They had enough food set out on the table to feed twice their number. Josiah reached out to cradle the back of JD’s head in one hand, pulling him into a hug that managed to be cautious and whole-hearted at the same time. He released JD and pressed a spoon and carton of rich broth into his hands. JD sat on the edge of one of the beds and ate – surprised at his ravenous appetite – until a massive yawn caught him unawares. 

In the morning, there would be serious conversations with serious men in serious suits. The outcome of which would determine the rest of JD’s life; but that was a concern for morning. In the here and now, he was warm and drowsy and safe. It was enough.

JD dropped off, lulled by the quiet conversation of his gathered family.


	22. Five Weeks Later, Denver

The Kawasaki purred gracefully into its customary space between Josiah's battered old suburban and Buck's truck. JD dropped the kickstand into place and pulled his helmet off. Cuervo was there before the vibrations of the engine died. JD grinned and picked up the tom. Cuervo tolerated the attention until it became apparent that JD didn't have any treats on him. He lost interest quickly, but JD was inclined to take the welcome home for what it was. 

JD couldn't believe how happy he was to finally be back at work. By the time the Coast Guard, FBI, and half a dozen other agencies -- not all of which officially existed -- finished asking every question they could think of three times over, his two-week vacation had stretched nearly an extra month. He'd still be there, answering the same questions, if Judge Travis hadn't placed a few well-phrased phone calls.

He made his way from the parking garage to the lobby amid a hail of greetings and happy recognition. The events in Boston were classified, so naturally the entire building had heard some variation of the story. 

JD returned all of the attention with friendliness that wasn't forced, but he couldn't help but wish for a quieter reception. He still hadn't had a chance to process everything that happened in Boston. And while he wasn't sure if he needed to grieve for Ioseph, he at least needed time to consider the matter.

Stranger or not, the man had been his father. His mother had loved him; and he, her. Ioseph had given his life for JD. It was too big a thing, JD decided abruptly, to know that someone had died for you. 

He was jarred from his morose musings by the sound of his name. Toby, the guard from the front desk was waving him over urgently. "JD! Hey, got somethin' for you." He placed a flat rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper on the counter between them. 

Toby leaned on the counter, conspiratorially. "It true you took out a whole KGB cell?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Better brush up on your current events, Toby," JD non-answered, "there is no KGB anymore." He reached for the package, which now rested beneath Toby's forearm.

"Seriously, man. What happened in Boston? We heard some pretty wild stories. Buck's been telling..."

JD laughed and it almost sounded natural. "Nothing that exciting." Buck had been pushing him to use the story to enhance his reputation. The lothario had even gone so far as to suggest JD's story would be improved by the presence of a scar -- nothing grotesque; just a visible reference for the ladies to fuss over. 

JD had refrained from pointing out the livid, still healing line that slashed diagonally across his ribs. He didn't like to think about the desperate struggle on deck, or the memory of Genya falling away into darkness. Buck didn't mean to make light of the events in Boston. It was just his surrogate brother's way of coping with an experience that shook him more than he would admit. 

He didn't hide his residual anxieties from JD as well as he thought he did. In the two weeks between the rest of Team 7's return to duty and JD's flight home, JD had endured multiple daily check-up calls. He hadn't minded. There were some days he thought those calls were the only things keeping him from being spirited off in the middle of the night to undergo more intensive debriefing. And on his first night home in Denver, he'd woken from a troubled sleep to find Buck hovering outside his doorway. Far from finding this intrusive, it had comforted JD and he'd fallen into a restorative slumber.

With a start, JD realized he'd drifted off. Toby had asked a question, but JD couldn't recall it. Instead of floundering for an answer, JD made a show of glancing at his watch. "Hey, I can't be late my first day back. Chris’sll kill me."

Toby nodded agreeably. If he'd noticed the lapse in conversation, he didn't let on. "Good seeing you, man. Glad you're back." It took him a moment to comprehend JD's pointed stare at the counter between them. "Right. Sorry." He handed over the plain brown parcel. 

JD's name was written on the front of the package in unremarkable handwriting. There was no return address. Just JD Dunne, Agent. 7th Floor, Federal Building, Denver, Co. Wary of any package he wasn't expecting, JD turned back to Toby. 

"You checked this, right?"

"Of course," Toby said. "Ran it through the x-ray. Just some book."

That made JD feel a little better. But still... "Did you see who dropped it off?"

Toby shrugged. "Some old dude. Said he was a friend of yours, and was happy you made it home." He flipped through the desk sign-in sheet. "Got his name here somewhere... Cesario. V. Cesario."

JD thanked him absently. He toyed with the package the entire elevator ride. He didn't know anyone named Cesario, V or otherwise. 

By the time he made it to the desk and the six weeks of paperwork accumulated thereon, the mystery of the package was set aside. JD put his head down and plowed through as much as he could bear. Every so often, he would look up at the nondescript paper and be tempted. Each time he resisted the tug of curiosity; he'd had enough of surprises for a while. 

"Either you open it, or I do," Buck finally growled after the umpteenth time JD had looked at the package and sighed. Sensing something more diverting than endless reports, Vin and Ezra walked over to watch. Even Nathan and Josiah's attention drifted from their computers to the gathering at JD and Buck's communal desk.

JD grabbed the package defensively, he had no doubt Buck meant what he said. Carefully he slid his finger beneath the exposed edge of the paper, releasing the tape easily. The covering fell away to reveal a book bound in supple brown leather. The gold letters of the title seemed to glow with a light of their own. "Twelfth Night?" he read aloud, his confused frown turning the title into a question.

"Shakespeare," Chris supplied from his office door. 

"Why would someone send me Shakespeare?" JD asked of no one in particular. "I hated lit in school, and I don't even know anyone named Cesario."

Ezra was tracing the filigree with sensitive fingertips, his expression thoughtful. "Cesario is a character in the play, of a sort," he told JD mildly. "Cesario is the identity Viola assumes after she is presumed dead." He looked at JD meaningfully, "Lost in a shipwreck." Ezra opened the front cover and held the book out to JD.

A fine hand had scrawled an inscription across the flyleaf. JD's dark hazel eyes grew round as he read the words to himself.

"What's it say?" Buck demanded, unable to read his roommate's expression as mere surprise or something darker. 

JD swallowed hard before he began reading. "Build me a son." His voice cracked with emotion and he tried to start over. "Build me a son, O Lord, who," his voice failed him a second time.

Josiah took pity on the young agent. He lifted the book from his hands and read the inscription, his deep baritone carrying the sound to every corner of the office. 

"Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory. Build me a son whose wishes will not take the place of deeds; a son who will know Thee - and that to know himself is the foundation stone of knowledge. Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to stand up in the storm; here let him learn compassion for those who fail. Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high; a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men; one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past. And after all these things are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor, so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility, so that he may always remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, and the meekness of true strength. Then I, his father, will dare to whisper, "I have not lived in vain."

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sue and Angie who've held my hand and prodded me to get this beast finished. Lyn and Phyllis for wrangling commas. Lisa and Suzy for your expert cheer-leading. Apologies to the Darlin's for believing me when I thought I had it finished five years ago. 
> 
> I really wish I could remember who came up with Cuervo the cat.
> 
> The title and passage at the end come from "A Father's Prayer" by General Douglas MacArthur.


End file.
